


pendulum

by soyul



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clairvoyance, Crime Scenes, Graphic Description of Murder, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Supernatural Elements, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 150,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyul/pseuds/soyul
Summary: A skeptical detective attempting to catch a killer and a paranormal investigator searching for evidence of the afterlife are thrown together to solve Chicago’s deadliest homicide case.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 92
Kudos: 110





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! I have returned!! I missed writing and honestly, what other time than quarantine to finish a two year long story? I started this hell of a long ass story in 2018 and /still/ isn't as long as my previous one despite taking half the time lol. I'm glad to be back, I've read all of your comments on my fics and it warmed my heart, you're all so kind and I want you all to know that your words encouraged me to work on this faster. <333
> 
> So here it is! **150,000 words, COMPLETED.  ** I will post chapters as I am still editing, though fair warning, it is unbeta'd and most likely would have a few mistakes I had missed. Sorry for that, English is not my native language lol. 
> 
> **ALSO, HUGE disclaimer: this story contains graphic description of murder and crime scenes, if that's not what you're looking for, please don't hesitate to skip or stop reading. If you continue, head these warnings, the story is very explicit.**
> 
> I'll leave you here for now, and I truly hope you enjoy this teaser :). First chapter will be posted this Friday, August 14, right when Puppet History S2 comes out \o/.  
> And like always, comments are not necessary, but appreciated. See you Friday!!!!!!
> 
> unbeta'd.

**PART ONE**

**JULY 1988  
Chicago, ** **Illinois**  
  


Summer of 1988 witnessed a surge of homicidal wrongdoings in Chicago. 

Nowadays. A home, with blood splatter on its walls, left behind fingerprints and the murder weapon did nothing but raise a few eyebrows and then— _well, there’s nothing here, pack it up boys._

That’s how cases were left unsolved.

None of Shane’s cases were left unsolved.

He seldom gave himself the title as the ‘prodigious detective’ in all of Chicago, Illinois—again, _rarely_ , because he would come across as egotistical. But what the hell? He was the best of the best, the man who everybody called, the detective who would be offered thousands to solve a case that anybody with basic knowledge of forensics could. (And because he never, ever says prodigious.)

That’s why he stood in front of the Roseberry home. A gray suburban, two story house with a flawless front garden. The outside was better than its interior, he _figured_ , as the aroma of recently mowed grass (suspected from the killer) breached his nostrils and the yard had been free of any weeds. (Also, suspected done so by the killer.)

Yellow tape surrounded the area, hanging by the wooden fence and Shane ducked under it seamlessly. He strut past men with cameras strapped over their necks, snapping away with obnoxious flashes to capture a glimpse of the crime. Those photographs would be sent to Shane and he would have a field day with them.

Shane didn't have fancy equipment, his intuition told him the story. 

Here, it wasn’t difficult to understand what the hell happened.

Two sisters, twins, lived in their house after their parents left for work in Florida. The sisters cared for the home in compensation in the form of allowance, both would have gotten a sum of five dollars for an hour of hard work (mowing the lawn, cleaning the house, etcetera,) but it turns out, they _hired_ somebody to do so.

Somebody who killed them in cold blood.

Last night, neighbors surrounding the Roseberry’s block called authorities to complain of a rogue lawnmower in the sister’s home. It had taken another few hours until Mary Roseberry did not show up at her morning shift as a waitress at the local diner, nearby a laundromat where Isabelle Roseberry had earned five twenty-five an hour during the night. Mary’s boss dialed the police who in turn _dialed_ Shane to wander inside the crime scene. 

(Kelsey insisted on reading about the Roseberrys out loud as they drove.)

And was it one of the worst; Shane had seen thousands of crime scenes. He endured women, men, and children in situations nobody had ever dreamed of, but this—this took the cake.

The sisters had been killed in the living room, both sprawled on top of each other and peeking into the foyer. Their faces frightfully unrecognizable, limbs contorted abnormally and stuck to the floor from their own blood. A flash of a camera illuminated the darkened room and Shane took in the sight of the youngest sister’s stomach cut open, her insides spewed out of her body and into the hardwood floor—the killer wanted to pull out her intestines.

He wrinkled his nose. What kind of monster would do this?

Shane jerked his head in the direction of shoes pivoting on the hardwood floor. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and turned back to one of LeBlanc’s team members. The forensic unit gathered as much blood as they could, but the effort would be inutile. Blood had stained the living room, soaked through the costly rug and in turn mixed into a conglomerate crimson heap.

“Madej—wait _, wait_ ,” Shane heard his name, he drew his eyebrows together as he excused himself and walked to the foyer. “No pictures, I said _no pictures_ , you goddamn lunatics! Madej—” 

His colleague TJ stood underneath the doorway, pushing away reporters with cameras outside on the front yard of the house. They scattered around like zoo animals, on top of each other as they attempted to gander inside the house.

“That’s enough,” Shane hollered, he dragged TJ away from the paparazzi (who weren’t even here for _him_ ) and pulled him inside of the house, slamming the front door shut. “What the fuck were you thinking bringing them here?”

“ _Me_?” TJ scoffed, “why in the hell would I do that? They followed me here.” TJ gathered himself, smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes as if the media had grabbed him with filthy fingers before peering his eyes at the crime scene. 

“You may have to prepare yourself,” Shane began, tossing him spare gloves and gave TJ a lopsided grin, “it’s a doozy.”

“Yeah okay,” TJ rolled his eyes and disregarded Shane’s warning, walking into the lounge alone. Shane remained where he was, toyed with the latex glued to his index finger and waited. He had no reason to return to the crime scene, he saw what had been done to the poor girls, he didn't particularly want to see it again.

Another flash interrupted his thoughts as his grin widened, watched as TJ stumbled back into the entrance of the house. He grabbed onto the doorway aggressively, his knuckles an unhealthy pale, almost the identical as the sickly look plastered on his face.

“Satisfied?” Shane joked in a dry tone, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt.

“T—this was a _monster_ ,” TJ blubbered, he rambled to himself and bent down to gag.

Shane had pushed down the nausea since he had seen his first crime scene, the unavoidable dizziness of painted gore and separated limbs had rendered him still, heaving into a trash bin. He understood TJ’s disbelief, but after a while, you would _think_ to get used to it.

“The killer is suspected to be a man the sisters hired to take care of their garden. Neighbors called in last night, the Chicago PD received active complaints of somebody mowing the Roseberry’s lawn in the middle of the night.” Shane explained to a delusional TJ, who composed himself enough to lean on the coat rack by Shane’s side. “None of the neighbors had seen the man but they heard the lawnmower every two or three days for months.”

“That’s—” TJ paused and scrunched up his face, “an awful lot. Just to mow the lawn?”

Shane tilted his head towards the living room and he returned his mischievous smile for TJ. TJ watched him bizarrely until he gaped and _ah'd_. “The killer wasn’t mowing the lawn?”

“He probably used his job to his advantage. An excuse to visit the house and see the girls,” Shane theorized, “what I don’t understand is why both sisters left the house daily and did not contact anybody about a potential stalker.”  
  
“Maybe the man was a family friend. You think this was premeditated murder? Did he take the lawnmower with him?” TJ surveyed the foyer, “have you checked?”

“I just got here,” Shane divulged, then stepped away to the opposite side of the house, the glint of the cameras ceased from the other room and he heard the faint voices of officers speaking to the forensic investigators. Shane, with TJ on his heel, pushed the door of the kitchen wide open with his forearm.

The door swung open and they both took in the pristine counters, revolting floral wallpaper and needlessly a _clean_ kitchen. Pots and pans elegantly stacked on top of each other on a drying rack, a picture of a rooster hung across the stove, and nothing out of place. 

So, the kitchen wasn’t used the night of the murder, arguably hadn’t been used at all during the summer. There was a drawer half-opened, Shane noticed, part of a utensil stuck out.

TJ was a step ahead of him and loomed over him, “the door to the outside is opened,” he said, “the shed—”

“Wait,” Shane called out to him and as he suspected, turned before TJ did. He was right, it was too clean for its own good. They walked into a front. By the side of the door, on the floral wallpaper was blood. A peculiar amount used for the killer to deliver his message across, it covered most of the wall, large letters done with three individual fingers.

The blood hadn’t dried, yet.

Was the killer in the house when Shane arrived?

“What the fuck—” Shane looked down as TJ gasped out, no footprints in sight but a bucket by the wall, filled to the brim with blood and a rinsed out towelette hanging out of it. Animal blood? The Roseberry’s blood?

“Call Steven,” Shane ordered nervelessly to TJ, “tell him that we have a potential serial killer.”

_I AM THE DEVIL AND I WILL KILL AGAIN._


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy Puppet History S2 DAY!!! As promised here is the first chapter of this hell of a story. Basically a day in the life of Mr. Shane Madej haha. We'll see Ryan appear next time :)  
> Thank you all for reading, I truly appreciate it!
> 
> A few disclaimers: Part one of this story has been edited and ready to post, I'll still post either weekly or every couple of days. This chapter **contains graphic description of murder & crime scenes, proceed with caution **
> 
> I'll let you all go for now!! I hope you enjoy! Much love xxxxxx o/

**JULY 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

Shane threw his arms into the air, stretching his limbs from his office cubicle and popped the tense joints in his muscles. “Did we contact the family?”

“Yes,” his coworker, Devon nodded her head, an inspector who had arrived at the scene before he did, devoted respect for the victims and personally fought off anybody who planned to ruin the Roseberry name. “They’re on a flight from Florida. Shane—” she sighed mournfully, “they’re devastated and they’re suing _The Sun_.”

Shane raised his eyebrow, “right away huh,” He whistled and jumped from his rickety computer chair, it scraped the floor as he stood, “why?”

“They published this,” she held up the newspaper on top of her clipped binder and gave Shane an idea why the parents had been enraged. “They claim that the Roseberry sisters experimented with satanism and were killed as a result. However, satanic practitioners are upset and asked not to be generalized.”

Shane hummed, of course the media would leap towards a story before any information would be public.

“I understand. Take care of the Roseberrys when they arrive,” he walked away with her behind, writing on top of the tedious newspaper. “Make sure that TJ gets to ask them a few questions after any funeral arrangements _and_ please—convince them to sue at a reasonable amount, let's not let them lose.”

“How much?” Devon asked, her eyes glued on the newspaper.

Shane rolled his shoulders and popped his neck, opened the door of the conference room, “one mil. Let’s go all the way, yeah?”

Devon whirled around and Shane entered the room hastily. Back at the crime scene, flashes of paparazzi cameras were expected every ten or twenty seconds in intervals; here, they flashed promptly as Shane walked in. He taught himself to squint and look straight ahead, walking upwards onto the stage and in view. Steven Lim stood on the podium—as the head of their investigation unit—and took the role of talking to the media. (Something Shane would rather never do.)

Face blank, he cocked his head when Shane walked in and cleared his throat. “We’ll be taking questions at the end,” he accentuated smoothly, propping his hands on both sides of the podium and narrowed his eyes at Shane, then turned back to the egregious journalists in front of him. Women and men with open notepads and pens in their hands, or cameras, even _voice_ recorders (that’s new,) observed Steven’s every action as he was handed the report Shane wrote half an hour ago.

“I will start off with the obvious,” Steven began, taking in the report in his possession, “this case is currently under investigation. The victims had been killed four days prior and we ask that any comments or articles be kept to yourselves.”

“What about the killer! Is he still out there?”

Shane’s fingers pressed on his palm before he intertwined his hands behind him, he raised his eyebrow as he glanced at Steven, who had not looked up from the report to the journalist’s question. Shane stood by Steven’s side, still and expressionless as he recorded the faces of the press in the room. He found himself in a room of diverse human beings, both sitting and those standing, but he knew that anything that came out of Steven’s mouth can lead to a chain reaction of chaos in a matter of seconds.

He bit his tongue and looked away.

“Under investigation,” Steven answered after a moment, closing the report and finally looking upwards, “Mr. Madej has been assigned to work on this case. And we have been informed that the sisters and a neighbor had known the suspect for months. We theorize that he must have lived self-employed in the vicinity.”

Well, Shane didn't expect that. The journalists were taken aback too, their faces overcome with dread as the realization that the killer resided in Chicago’s suburban neighborhood downed on them. 

“Is the rumor that the sisters practiced satanism real? Can you confirm this?”

Now, who would ask such a silly question?

Shane’s eyes averted from Steven to the crowd, he didn't see the person who asked but he knew from Steven’s outward impatient answer that the question was ridiculed anyway.

Shane tried to keep the media’s accusations away from his investigations in an effort not to hinder his progress, especially since _he_ was the one who was in charge of finding these scoundrels in the first place.

But because the media loved to make his job harder, the rumor that the Roseberry sisters endangered themselves from straying away from Christianity and into the occult, as a result, killed by a vengeful spirit circulated rapidly like a horse at a race track. And Shane, he was betting on the _opposite_ horse. 

“We will hold another press conference once we investigate further,” Steven took the papers in his hands half an hour later, “thank you for your time.” The journalists in the room stood up from their chairs, nearly throwing themselves over the pair of security by the stands, hollering out their questions to no avail.

“I see that we’re looking fancy,” Steven joshed over the hysterical cries of questions, “have you returned to the crime scene?”

“I haven’t,” Shane yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, “I don’t think there’s anything else in that house that I could search for, the blood is obviously from an animal.”

“So, you _do_ think our suspect is a farmer.”

“Who knows?” Shane shrugged, he opened the door of the conference room for Steven as they walked out and back into their department. Employees rushed about the place, and they welcomed the sounds of phones ringing, answering calls with austere expressions, “who's to say the killer has a farm in Chicago?”

“It’s a reach don’t you think?” Steven countered, reaching over an intern’s desk and politely ordered for copies on Shane’s report before facing him again, “it’s not guaranteed as animal blood.”

“ _Yet_. It’s an obscene amount for it to be from the girls,” Shane noted, surveying the intern’s movements as he battled with his copier vigilantly and close to topping over his portable radio, “unless there’s a third source.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Steven warned, his gaze moved from Shane to behind his shoulder, where he massaged the back of his neck. “Don’t look now, Marchbank arguing with your boss.”

Shane stilled, jammed both hands in his pant pockets, “is he angry?”

“Not… really?”

Shane whirled around, and caught the sight Steven was watching before. TJ isn’t angry, no, far from it. His eyes drooped as he continued to speak with their boss, only a word mouthed from him could Shane decipher.

_Paranormal?_

Normally, Shane would ignore the antics his colleagues would get up to. His boss and his partner like to reach inconclusive theories that led nowhere. And now, in the middle of their department, Shane found no interest to add himself in the picture.

“Madej!”

But it couldn’t be helped. He was needed after all. 

Shane lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug, gave Steven a wink as he chuckled at Shane and centered his attention on the intern. Shane strolled over to his partner leisurely, evading other employees, “Mr. Marchbank. Hello Eugene. Wonderful day we're having, huh?”

“Two women were killed brutally with a killer at large, their parents are suing several newspaper companies and the public is hectic, convinced that the girls were practicing satanism,” Eugene finished reciting what Shane had previously knew, and since Shane knew him better, he smiled when Eugene shrugged, “I think it’s going alright.”

“It’s going—” TJ blew out his cheeks, “I’m working with lunatics.”

“I was calmly explaining to Marchbank my plans for the upcoming month,” Eugene addressed, he turned on his heel and gestured for Shane and TJ to follow with his finger.

Eugene was an attractive fellow, of average height with his hair styled the way any woman or man swooned over. Despite his handsome features, Eugene was a serious, confident man. He was in charge of their team, as their director and acted as the final step in convincing anybody of a crime. None of them were police officers, any warrant for arrest had to reach Eugene first. Whatever Eugene says goes, if he finds _any_ inaccuracy in their suspect, they’d be forced to start over before he could initiate an arrest.

He relied (clung on Shane’s shoulder) whenever a case this extreme accumulated in a populated area. Shane couldn’t say for sure if it was because Eugene studied criminology longer than he has or if he didn't bother to try and solve homicide cases.

Whatever it may be, Shane knew his answer right off the bat.

“Since the family is suing we aren’t concerned with any misinformation from spreading further,” Eugene’s shoes squeaked on the spotless floor, his burgundy blazer shone from the sunlight seeping through the windows of their section.

“I know,” Shane understood, “I’m not concerned either—”

“It doesn’t mean that it won’t happen,” Eugene’s shoulders rose, and cocked his head towards a window, “we can’t control them, those bastards.” Eugene sneered at the reporters outside, most of them men their age, hoping to get a first look of the supposed killer or the… in this case, a _demon_.

Eugene had a right to call them bastards.

“What if _we_ sue?” TJ kidded, standing by Eugene to view the disorderly crowd.

“I have a better idea,” Shane rejoined, “we could tell them that the killer is loose in Chicago.”

“The—” TJ turned over his shoulder, indifference overtook his face, “the killer _is_ loose in Chicago.”

“Oh good! Problem solved. We don’t have to talk to them then,” Shane smiled, bouncing on the soles of his feet and swaying his body forward and back. “Anyway, I need the list of the reporters and journalists Steven was speaking to today. One of them had an riveting inquiry.”

“Are you dwelling in the occult?” Eugene asked jokingly, leaning his shoulder on the window with crossed arms. 

“I’m dying to answer their question. Who knows, maybe they’re a friend of a friend? Small world.” Shane’s smile grew, and felt giddy when Eugene cackled. His eyebrows rose and he shrugged, almost as if the idea of Shane talking to journalists would ever happen. 

“You have no idea. I have the list of registered journalists, I’ll see if Devon can send you a copy.” He glanced at the crowd one more time before walking away from the commotion.

“For now, Madej, Marchbank, I’m going to send you out there,” he went on, motioned towards the window with his chin, “we haven’t gotten a solid alibi from a neighbor, two houses down from the Roseberrys. I want you to see if you can reach out to her.”

“Sweet,” Shane clicked his tongue and watched as Eugene filled the empty spaces within their office. It wasn’t as busy towards Eugene’s office, but it still had people running around and calling out for each other. 

If there was one thing Shane knew, it was how exciting a case gets after a few days of the initiated murder. Both autopsies are scheduled to come in tomorrow morning and Shane will finally get his _eureka_ moment. 

He was thinking about the witness when he noticed the vacant presence beside him. “Marchbank?”

“Actually, uh,” TJ fidgeted on the spot, a man who competed with Shane’s height curled into himself and frowned. “I’m going to have to sit this one out.”

“What?” Shane, perplexed, searched for any resolve in his friend’s eyes, “why? Is it the murder?”

He was met with sorrow, “well… yeah. The media is getting to my wife’s head, too. And those girls… she’s pregnant, Shane, I can’t—”

“Hey man,” Shane let out a nervous laugh, he hovered his hand over TJ’s shoulder and pushed him to the side and away from prying eyes. “It’s alright, you don’t have to worry about this. Actually, I need you to be here.”

“Huh?”

“I need—” Shane sniffed and narrowed his eyes at the employee nearby, he lowered his voice. “I need to know who asked Steven that satanism question earlier. If we’re solving this case—”

“You want an outside source?”

“No,” Shane let out a chortle, “we need silence.”

TJ gaped at him, “you mean _kill_ them?”

“Kill—what _no_. I’m not killing them,” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, “the Roseberry family are suing and they’re asking for names. Maybe they published an article? I don’t know. It was a male voice, I couldn’t see him. But it would help if he didn't spread that ridiculous theory around.”

“I’ll… see what I can do,” TJ nodded, patting his now _ex_ -partner’s back, “be careful out there, Madej, I hear that a killer is on the loose.”

* * *

Demons don’t exist.

By default, anything with a soul had it’s time on Earth before disappearing back to its creator. But it certainly wouldn’t haunt a building or possess people for the hell of it. _Wouldn’t_ murder two human beings. Hell, that’s what he grew up believing. He never grew up religious, or in belief that a higher being would be there to greet him when he died. He didn't mind those who did, he didn't think to criticize or seek to—if anything he kept to himself.

Although, there wasn’t any proof. In 1988—now when Shane’s forensic team was on the edge of evolving D.N.A analysis—there must be _some_ proof?

Shane’s never seen a demon, or a ghost. Or the devil. So, this theory of the girls indulging into satanism was bull. What the Roseberry girls did on their time was _their_ business. Nobody had the right to intrude or expose them after their brutal murder. 

Done by a human, by the way...

“I’m sorry,” Shane leant down, he felt his neck howl in protest but his witness was short, “could you repeat that for me? The girl—”

“—had boys over often, didn't you listen?” The witness crossed her arms over her chest and leaned by the doorway of her house. “I was friends with one of them, Mary, for three years. She loved to have boys over at her parents house.”

The woman who Shane was speaking to was young, claimed to have recently graduated and by the looks of it, had textbooks strewn behind her on the kitchen table. She was a neighbor, _Mary_ ’s friend, though their relationship had been bumpy.

She was a highlighted suspect, but her alibi saved her behind from Kelsey interrogating her. 

“People thought Mary and I were lovers,” Mary’s friend shook her head, “it wasn’t her that I was interested in, if you were wondering.”

“I didn't ask that,” Shane sighed internally, “I know you’ve lost a—Mary, and I’m here to help you in the best way I can.”

His witness didn't look convinced, she held her door frame with her hand and possibly considered closing the door on him. He’d let it happen of course, he had zero interest to upset another person, especially when they hadn’t committed a crime. The witness eventually exhaled, her body less tense and instead of commenting on Shane's fashion choice, she opened the door for him. “Come in,” she said, “I’ll fix you up some tea.”

“I had questioned five people in the last three days,” Shane put forth, walking inside of her house. “All of them invited me in and told me something I cannot use.”

“About the occult, I assume?”

“Yes,” _if I hear about it one more fucking time—_

“You won’t hear that from me,” she reassured, tugging a strand of her hair behind her ear. She let out a muttered apology and scrambled to organize the textbooks on her kitchen table. “Take a seat. Sorry, my girlfriend is at work. She is weary about police officers.”

“I’m not one nor do I work with them,” Shane ensured, “I’m a private investigator.”

“Of course. We can’t help to be cautious anyway,” Mary’s friend gawked at the sink, a few grimy dishes in sight. She ran hot water over them to clean them swiftly as Shane took in her house. The kitchen was elegant, a baby blue with a floral backsplash and wooden counters. She had kitchen utensils, a portable radio blasting a muffled rendition of a _Blondie_ song and newspaper clippings hung from her refrigerator.

The fridge was shorter than him, covered in magnets and papers with neat handwriting. One of them was a picture of Mary’s friend with a woman kissing her, Mary was in the picture too, smiling widely. To see the victim tug Shane’s heartstrings, she was unrecognizable when he saw her for the first time.

He tore his eyes away to another picture of a woman with Mary. They were younger, out in an open football field with cheerleader uniforms and pom-poms near their feet. Other teenagers showed on the photograph, though some had photobombed, the center of attention was clearly on Mary and the woman.

“Your girlfriend?” He asked, pointing at a woman, shorter than Mary with golden skin. Her hair tied in braids and she smiled widely as she held Mary to her.

“Yes,” he heard tea poured into his cup when she did, “it’s hot, be careful.”

“Mary was a happy girl. She was a cheerleader?”

“Oh yeah,” Mary’s friend answered happily, “she was the best. Her parents paid for her dance classes while her sister… she was a lot more introverted and kept to herself. But she was a genius.”

“Hmm,” Shane held the cup that had his steaming tea—to not appear as rude—in it without any intention of drinking it, a cup with a faded eagle on it, the words also unreadable apart from _Eagles._ He assumed that it was from her school.

“I do feel guilty for not paying attention to them,” he turned his head to her, “Mary loathed the man her sister kept bringing up, she knew something was up…”

“Do you know who it was? A name?”

Mary’s friend looked up at him, her own hands over her cup as she took a sip. “I didn't ask. If I did,” she looked away, “you wouldn’t be here, Mr. Madej.”

Mary’s friend had lots to say. The first break that he’s gotten in days, something that didn't involve _practicing evil, a demon killed them_ , _they weren’t catholic, what did it matter_?

But a look in Mary’s past doomed Shane to a dead end. The girl lived in normalcy—she was a teenager, she loved cheerleading, she was a great student, she worked as a waitress. She loved her sister, she had snuck in a dog through their backyard when she was six. She was somebody who enjoyed the company of other people around her, even going as far as inviting them in her house.

Though, it was all he knew, Mary’s sister had been invisible to people who knew Mary. It was already what _he_ knew. 

He felt worse than before, knowing that these two women were brutally murdered to only have people criticize them on live television and newspapers. 

A few days after the Roseberry family announced legal action against _The Sun_ , Shane discovered the Roseberry family were loaded, rich.

So, why did Mary need a job as a waitress? Independency? Had they been in debt? Insurance fraud?

Who was in the house?

Fuck, if Shane didn't need to sleep for eight hours in a day, he’ll have all the answers in the world.

...

Three days later, Shane gets a call. 

He sat on his desk during lunch, took mouthfuls of his blueberry bagel when he squinted his eyes at the telephone. He wiped his fingers on his napkin and took the phone up to his ear, “‘ello?”

“ _Yes, is this Shane Madej_?”

“Depends,” he quipped, smiling, “is this the killer?”

Silence emerged from the other end, Shane’s grin widened when he heard a muffled swear and the ring of the phone cutting off afterward. He shrugged and threw the telephone to it’s hook and bit into his bagel. 

Since he’s returned from questioning witnesses, his line has skyrocketed. He hadn’t gotten a break, only once when he _had_ to shut the machine off. None of his calls were serious, he knew that the killer had no intention of getting caught any time soon.

Why else would they leave such an incriminating message behind? 

“I really didn't want to bother you,” he raised both eyebrows, and ran a finger under his nose to wipe away dust. The phone had been picked up constantly, but that didn't mean that dust lingered around his cubicle. 

“You’re the only person I’m happy to see Devon,” he conceded, and it was true. Eugene had been on his ass for the past week and a half about this case, and since he was void of any physical evidence and unhelpful witnesses, Shane had to repeatedly run to the starting line.

TJ had gotten him the list of reporters earlier this week and Shane skimmed through it vaguely before heading out the Roseberry neighborhood. The last of his worries were the journalists, the commotion died down when the Roseberry parents _did_ sue. As he predicted, the media settled into their caves until further news would come out to light.

“If that’s true Shane…” Devon trailed off, she reached for his desk and stood by his phone line, “I don’t exactly bring good news.”

Shane sat straighter in his chair and uncrossed his legs, she hesitated to continue until Shane crumbled his napkin and threw it away. “What happened?”

Devon nibbled on her bottom lip, her gaze on her shoes then back to him. “One of our witnesses, she sent us a message. She is leaving Chicago.”

“What?” Mayhem spun in Shane’s mind, he stood from his chair to retrieve his keys on the side of his desk, “did she say why?”

“She—” Devon set down the call’s transcript on his desk and compelled herself to relax, “she supposedly called one of our interns. She’s moving in with family and wants nothing to do with the murder, for her safety…”

A muscle in Shane’s jaw clenched, his eyes peered at Devon, “you think she was forced to say that?”

“I don’t know. Shane—she _may_ have been in contact with the suspect. If she’s heading out for Lafayette tonight—”

“Louisiana?” Shane’s eyes widened, he flipped the transcript over to see what Devon had mentioned to him before, “this makes no sense. Why would she leave and tell _us_?”

“Eugene suggests you go see her,” Devon replied instead, though Shane had gotten his bearings by the time she did. He was looking for his wallet when she sighed, “we sent backup too. Eugene doesn’t want you to rule out the possibility that this woman might have been a compliance to the murder.”

“Willingly?”

“That’s for you to find out,” Devon inclined her head as he passed by her hurriedly and cradled her shoulder as he did in an effort to console her, Devon’s voice echoed when she hollered: “call Eugene when you get there!”

_Is he not going?_ He wanted to yell out, though, as he stepped out, he knew as to why. This woman wasn’t going to last the night. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath as he drove to the address he knew by memory. Hours of calling and thinking of names that might have been involved in the Roseberry’s murder does that to a person. Now Shane was losing _another_ witness by the same bastard? 

Unbelievable.

Did this woman sacrifice herself for their sake? She didn't tell Shane a word other than what he knew already, neither did she give him a name. Unless it’s somebody she cared for, someone _close_ to her, she could have been blackmailed into secrecy. Was she covering for them?

The tires of his car screeched against the asphalt and he parked in front of Susan’s home. The Roseberry residence had been closed off by yellow tape, windows boarded up to avoid any tampering of evidence inside the house or restrict vagrants from sleeping there for a night. 

And Susan’s house was just as eerie, _without_ the tape.

“Stay here,” Shane demanded the crowd of policemen outside Susan’s house, “I’m going in, give me a gun.”

“Do you know how to shoot?” One of the policemen asked, handing him a pistol prudently. 

“Eh,” Shane raised his shoulder and roughly scanned the gun he was given, “does it matter?”

The Roseberrys lived in a wealthy neighborhood, their suburban houses stood tall and tidy both inside and out. And Shane’s inexpensive boots had to walk through their sidewalk into their porch. The stairs creaked under his weight, and he kept his distance from the door.

His eyes blinked over to the windows and he could see had been sealed, their shutters closed. When he was about to check the backyard, he stepped on a rock. A huge one, unusually white and nudged on the side of the front door. He held the gun in his right hand, meticulous on tapping the front door with his foot. 

It squeaked under his weight and opened marginally. 

“Susan?” He called, and tapped the tip of his gun to the front door to open all the way.

Shane was struck by the unforgiving stench of sweat, followed by the loud bark of the family dog. He held his breath and moved himself further inside, nothing was around the foyer apart from the stairs and the doorway to a bedroom.

When he was here before, Shane had been escorted to the living room on the right, but hadn’t been accommodated by the devastating sight of a woman’s flaccid body. He knew it was Susan from her curled hair, tousled onto her coffee table and left face-down. He pressed his mouth together as he remained quiet and _listened_.

He heard nothing, no squeak of the porch or the sound of clatter—

Then, he listened in to the sound of the front door opening with Eugene’s backup entering the house. He swore and ran but missed by a longshot, because when he burst into Susan’s kitchen, he was caught by the overpowering smell of blood and the backyard door wide open.

He was here. The killer was _here_ , the familiar aura of blood covering the walls, but—

_I AM THE DEV L I WIL_

Didn't finish?

“ _Already_ getting sloppy?” He muttered to himself, and his gaze turned to the spilled bucket of blood on the kitchen floor. Didn't even get a chance to clean. 

If this was a demon, it was the worst one he’s ever seen.

* * *

The grueling sound of nails clicking on hardwood, repeatedly stopping for a split second before piercing through Shane’s eardrums. He sat still, his back aligned with the delicate dark-blue chair, his hands intertwined on his lap. And the woman—the woman who sat across from him, a hand on her cheek held her head up and the other tapped her nails on the table. 

Kelsey squinted her eyes at him irritably, Shane stared and did not divert his eyes until he caught Steven’s eyes scrutinizing him, too. Kelsey sat up when the sound of a door opening interrupted the punishment Shane was receiving from both of them. As Kelsey looked away, he blew out his cheeks and looked at Devon who walked inside, face blanched. 

“News?”

“Her autopsy came in,” Devon scrambled with the folder in her arms, “the coroner disclosed that she was strangled to death.” 

“Asphyxiation?” 

Shane’s team, or a _quarter_ of his team, locked eyes with each other. Unable to speak until Steven queried: “But why?”

“They ran out of time,” Shane insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. He thought of unfinished words on the kitchen wall, the unnerving likelihood that the killer was still in the room and somehow ran from Shane’s clutches before he could blink. “Must have heard sirens and ran out the backdoor before I had arrived at the scene.”

Three sets of eyes observed him, and Steven took this opportunity to gesticulate at him to continue.

“ _Meaning_ , our suspect wanted to stage a murder, similar to Roseberry. But they knew that it would have been too much of a hassle if she was alive through it. They know we’re onto them.”

“Interesting,” Kelsey pondered, “but who _are_ they, Shane?”

Shane took a sip of his coffee and straightened in his chair. “I’m looking into it.”

“Looking? What exactly is your end goal here? Trying to catch the killer or just _looking_?” Kelsey took the styrofoam cup he held and slammed it back down on the table, “stop fucking around. This is a _third_ victim. There should be none!”

“If I’m allowed to comment,” Steven halted Kelsey from throttling Shane, “Eugene sent him out when _Susan_ called about her move to LaFayette. The killer must have known she was leaving or the killer somehow communicated with us. Lied to try and get us from looking into Susan.”

“If they killed her and took her away—we wouldn’t have found her,” Shane rubbed his chin, “it would make sense, now it only confirmed that our perpetrator definitely knew her. Susan and the Roseberrys are connected to the killer. Devon, make sure to contact the Roseberry parents about witness protection, Eugene will—” as Shane stood up, Kelsey tapped her fingers on the table.

“Uh no,” Kelsey turned her head to Devon and beamed, “Shane is right, get them into custody. Steven, make sure that the press has minimal contact with any visitors and you—” she pointed at Shane, “are staying here, we’re not done.”

As Shane was told to do, he sat back on the back-breaking chair and did not question as to _why_ Steven and Devon were allowed out. Kelsey’s angry gaze did not falter as she looked at him, but she sat back down across from him and stopped tapping her nails on the wooden table. She had slandered into the office, peeved (from her clothing alone, which had been automatically a sign in his book) and had dragged him into their conference room.

When the door closed behind Steven, she undid her ponytail and shook her hair, “I’m hard on you because I care for you.”

“I know,” Shane blinked and stared at her, “I’m behind on a few deadlines, I think.”

“I don’t mean to humiliate you in front of your own team,” Kelsey continued, running her hands through her blonde hair before gathering it up, “but you _are_ working for us—”

“I’m not—”

“You’re a detective working for us right _now_ ,” she tied her hair promptly, then set her palms flat on the table, “I don’t want to humiliate you any further, please be aware of the task at hand and don’t fuck up.”

In moments of doubt, Shane had a list of variables that he knew would apply to a situation. To make it sound less _pathetic_ than it really is. He knew he’d be scolded by his coworker, whether it be at eight in the morning or through the phone, but Kelsey had messed with her hair a little _too_ much today and sent Devon to do what Shane _didn't_ want to do. She also sent Steven out to deal with the press.

Or hide someone from the press.

“Kelsey, who are you trying to hide?” He genuinely asked, for he, himself, didn't know.

Kelsey puckered her lips and looked from her pale hands, “not Eugene, but his boss is coming over to speak with the both of us. Deputy director of the FBI, he’s going to drop some news for us that can be helpful to the case.”

“Do you know why?” It was worth a shot, because the second that Kelsey shook her head, the door squealed before opening to reveal Eugene’s boss. Shane spotted the window void of the reporters he saw this morning, except _one_ who turned their head the second Eugene’s boss closed the door.

Now, Kelsey said _he_ when she described Eugene’s boss, but Shane was getting an eyeful of a woman he’s never seen before. She was shorter than him, thin frame and wore a suit identical to Shane’s own. If he were in a beauty pageant, he would have lost against her. 

He stood up before Kelsey and extended his hand to the woman when he realized that she was occupied with a box in her arms. The woman stared at him amusingly before Shane took the situation at hand and offered to carry her items for her.

“So the rumors were false,” the woman said, her voice smooth, “you aren’t as cold-hearted as they make you out to be.”

Before Shane could defend himself, Kelsey laughed softly, “he isn’t—also, he’s not mysterious, anyone can read him like one of those free pamphlets you get at theme parks.”

Shane sighed, setting down the box in front of Kelsey and smiled when she tossed him a look and shoved the box away from her line of sight, “the only person who knows of the façade I’ve had for years is in this room; sorry, I’m Shane Madej.”

“I know,” the woman extended _her_ hand this time and shook his. “Kelsey Impicciche.”

“You’re kidding,” an excited voice piped up across from him, and _Kelsey_ pointed at herself. “ _My_ name is Kelsey.”

“I know,” Impicciche echoed, she nodded to both Shane and Kelsey and sat down, “please, sit, I’ll explain what I have in store for the both of you.” 

“With all do respect,” Shane began as he sat back down in the chair he previously chose, “If I’m about to be scolded—Kelsey tore me a new one already.” Even though he didn't turn his head, he felt Kelsey’s unwavering glare and the shuffle of her hands on the table.

Impicciche laughed softly and tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. Now sitting and less anxious, Shane took in the woman who introduced herself as a second Kelsey. She was shorter than both of them, but her presence as FBI kept them quiet until she scrambled around with Shane’s file and her own box. “I don’t believe it would be wise to waste time scolding you about something you cannot control. I assume everyone in your unit knows of the case?”

“Every detail,” Kelsey cleared her throat, “two days prior, Susan Parker was found dead in her home. We got her autopsy before your visit.”

“Asphyxiation, was it?” Impicciche tilted her head as she accepted the stapled file from Kelsey, her eyes scanned the words studiously, she switched back and forth as she took the information in. Shane hadn’t gotten the chance to look at the file himself, but he _had_ been at the crime scene to see it in person.

Apart from what little evidence they found, Shane knew that she could have been mutilated, her killer leaving her in the same state as the Roseberry’s sisters if not disrupted, but now; Shane knew that the assailant had strangled her to death. All of this was confirmed between Kelsey and Impicciche, though, the bigger picture was left out. 

Nobody in the FBI would send somebody of a higher position to berate Shane privately. They _knew_ that Kelsey would do it on her own accord and he’d listen to her more than anybody else. The autopsy wasn’t a secret either—the media had requested a copy and with the family notified, it was a matter of time before a press conference confirmed her cause of death. 

So?

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Shane inquired the minute Kelsey finished her own note-taking. “Did Eugene fly you in?”

Impicciche turned to him briefly before nodding her head, “of course. Why would he not? Apart from myself, not everyone is elated to meet Shane Madej.”

Really? Shane thought he was a delight to be around.

“Besides, I find you interesting,” she finally kept her eyes locked on him and widened her smile. “How did you know your boss called me? I don’t recall anybody knowing I was coming, much less _who_ was coming from the FBI.”

“Why does the FBI give one less of a shit over three murders in Chicago? Eugene had to inform you—” Before Shane could finish his _own_ interrogation, he thought about it. And damn, Eugene was good.

TJ offered to stay away from the case for the reason (that Shane believed) that he needed to distance himself away from a possible wayward killer for the sake of his wife and unborn child. Shane didn't think of it beyond TJ’s thoughtfulness and respected that full-heartedly, if he were in the same position, _with anybody_ he would step down before he endangered them.

But Kelsey Impicciche’s visit is too abrupt, only two days after Susan Parker’s death. Because the death toll grew, Shane’s reputation was failing him with every passing minute. Now, Shane had no partner. And Eugene had a motive to set him up with somebody _new_ to help him.

“Is this a blind date?” Shane incited, he smirked when Kelsey, took his hilarious quirk as anything but hilarious and rubbed her fingers across her forehead.

“As blind as it can get,” Impicciche, on the other hand, casually answered him. “Don’t be alarmed or offended that we think that you can’t solve this on your own—not only for the safety of the citizens of Chicago, but yourself."

Shane shrugged. He was known as a lone wolf, a man who solved cases by himself with zero to minimum help given. Of course, he had his coworkers since he began his career, all of them fascinating, wonderful people—well-rounded. But all of the clues pieced together in Shane’s brain like a puzzle, he _solved_ them without using a calculator or a formula. It was simple to him. 

But a partner wouldn’t hinder him. If he had a partner, maybe he’ll get a clue as to how the killer is getting away.

Impicciche interrupted his thought when she handed Kelsey a file. “This is your assignment Kelsey, as Shane is instructed to continue to stay here in Chicago. You will bring his partner to Chicago and we’ll explain the details to him.”

“And what do I tell him?” Kelsey flipped open the folder, Shane tried to peek in the file before deciding that he loved to surprise himself. He was going to tease them about it when Kelsey’s eyes suddenly grew wider, “wait—this is—”

“Ryan Bergara,” Impicciche finished for her, and Shane didn't recall the name whatsoever. “He is an investigator in Los Angeles, California. Specializes in freelance work and recently caught the attention of the FBI when a case he was working on went viral years ago, the Queen Mary case.”

Queen Mary?

Shane knew lots about homicidal cases, all ranging from minor to major. At the top of his head, he did not recall _Queen Mary_. “What? He tackled a case on his own? What a fella.”

For a moment, Impicciche thought Shane wasn’t serious, and soon after her mouth pursed. “Ryan is a _paranormal_ investigator.”

Shane thought of himself as somebody who connected the dots feasibly. In his head he saw the pendulum of his brain, still and quiet. But the left side of his brain, the _rational_ and smart part of him, suddenly twisted abnormally, swung its invisible string forward then plunged to his right, and it _clicked_.

Damn you, Eugene.

He turned to Kelsey, jerked his thumb in the direction of the folder Impicciche had in front of her. “Was he on the list of reporters from the Roseberry press conference?”

Kelsey breathed through her nose, “yes. He didn't ask the question you had dug your sticky fingers for though, that was the journalist he was with.”

But he _was_ here. Right in the flesh and close to Shane Madej, looking to the field of journalists who made up stories to exaggerate or downright lie. He will be here in days time to _work_ with Shane. To fill… his brain with paranormal theories?

“Why… why—did Eugene think this was a good idea?” He finally threw himself out of the trance he was in. Both of the women stared at him as he swallowed all the excitement he had to grab the file and read it. “A _paranormal_ investigator? Are you both out of it? Or has Eugene lost all hope? _After three deaths_?”

He continued to ramble as he saw Ryan Bergara’s file. 

Ryan Bergara didn't look like what he expected. What _did_ he expect? Wild, tangled hair on his head, blotchy eyes and a terrifying mouth that had spewed bullshit. No, Ryan Bergara was _handsome_. His hair was gelled to the side, his jawline apparent when he smiled, and Shane cursed himself for taking in the brightness of his eyes from the flimsy ID photograph.

He studied the man who has supposedly infamous for the _Queen Mary case_ —a case that was on his file as alleged evidence of the paranormal… a video documentation of a… fucking toothpaste falling off the sink? Are they messing with him?

“I knew he was going to be like this,” Kelsey admitted, “he’s a skeptic.”

“A lot of us are,” Impicciche agreed with him, “outside sources aren’t. They demand that somebody who ‘studied’ paranormal activity to work on this case. The media is unapologetically convinced that the girls had dabbled in satanism, of course, most sources are inclined to discredit practices from what they actually are. We want to investigate further, in case that the suspect had anything to do with this smear campaign.”

Shane opened his mouth to disagree but then immediately closed it. If he caught the guy, a _real_ living man. It would shut them up! Not only that, it would discredit the stupid video the man had from the Queen Mary, and his reputation as a paranormal investigator would be crushed when he discovers that his theories are lies.

It was—interesting.

Shane never had to do anything like this to get a break in a case, or better yet, a higher pay-rate. 

_Worst case scenario_ , he thought. _He'll end up dead_.

He shrugged, “okay.”

“Okay?”

Kelsey’s chair screeched as she stood up abruptly, “ _okay_?!”

“I don’t care. If Eugene insists that I need help, then I need help.” Shane shrugged again, the anger and his annoyance towards Eugene and literally _all_ of headquarters faded as he thought of the case ending _before_ meeting Ryan Bergara. He’d entertain the idea of a man who couldn’t handle reality, to finally rest the rumors and finish the job before September. Anything to solve the case—the quicker the better, hell, he’ll do anything to lift the weight on his shoulders before _lunch_.

Impicciche thought for a moment before rising from her chair, Shane followed behind. Kelsey however, her eyes narrowed at him and a shocked expression materializing on her face. 

“You won’t regret this, Mr. Madej,” Impicciche shook his hand, “he’ll be of use, I believe.”

A tap on his shoulder blade stunned him and he looked down at Kelsey, “are you sure about this?”

“Of course. He’s just some guy, what harm can he possibly do?”

“Why do you think he’ll bring you harm? What if he changes your _life_?” 

Right. And Shane can fly.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter!!!!! And one of my favorite chapters to write \o/. This story dabbles a bit in brujeria, which is something I grew up /kind of/ knowing from my family in Mexico, but I still had to do a great deal of research. Take it all with a grain of salt, its all fictional and perhaps a few details left out or changed for the story. Its such a beautiful practice!! I recommend reading about it!!
> 
> We see Ryan this chapter~~~ or just to see what he's up to hehehe. Sorry for any grammar errors! Enjoy!
> 
> **Any translation is at the end of the chapter.**

**JULY 1988**   
**Los Angeles, California**

  
His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. His legs took him from street to street, block to block, and he repeatedly had to remind himself to _inhale_ the tepid air around him. He looked back for a split second before turning back around _just_ in time to avoid a palm tree in the way.

With a yelp, Ryan held onto his backpack and ran his route to his house. He murmured prayers that he knew in both Spanish and English. Though his Spanish had yet to improve, he tried to warily pronounce the words Curly and his parents taught him. 

He rushed through old beaten down buildings, evading the roads with parked vehicles and the rail-road track he frequented. Pedestrians around him must have thought he was a lunatic, mothers with children stepped aside sneering at him, men told him to _fuck off_ and cars honked at him as he continued his detour on the road. He didn't mind any of it but threw the occasional _sorry_ towards their direction before continuing to pray.

Why did he agree to doing this?

He wanted to blame Curly. But he was just as guilty himself, he _was_ curious how it would have ended up for him. But fuck, if he knew that it was uninvited territory, _he wouldn’t have done it_!

It wasn’t long before Ryan found himself crossing the street and turned into the alleyway of the place he looked for. Knowing that he was safe there, he stopped for a second and pressed his back on the brick wall, breathing deeply once and walked further into the alleyway.

Ryan wiped the sweat from his forehead, his shoes stepped on puddles of water from potholes and his nose crinkled when he passed the dumpster. Yet, he took out his keys and unlocked the door of his workplace. The door opened eerily, and darkness flooded his vision immediately. 

His eyebrows squeezed together and swung his bag over his shoulder the second he felt his head throb, an ache that struck him from the side of his temple. For a moment, he thought he was done for. The demon he was told to ward off before found him, ambushed him with—he opened his eyes when he heard a faint prayer and the residue of… egg falling on his shoulder.

Knowing what happened, Ryan stomped his foot. “Why? Why!”

“To bless you,” Curly answered, he stopped messing with Ryan’s hair and scoffed. “How could _you_ think that I would let you come without protection? You almost brought a demon into our home!”

“That’s not even how it _works—_ ” Ryan looked over his shoulder quickly, the door ajar and he hauled Curly inside their shop. He slammed the door shut and pressed his clammy back to it. “Fuck man. Did you see it?”

“Yes,” Curly said in a perpetually tired tone, “it was in the shape of half-man, half-goat. He would have tried to kill you.”

“Who wouldn't?” Ryan pinched the side of his ear and tried to rid most of the egg shell from his skin, with no avail he gave Curly an indifferent look. “Why would you do this when it does nothing?”

“Next time I’ll let the goat eat you.”

Curly didn't mean it as an insult or hinted that he was offended. But Ryan murmured an apology in his direction and flicked his fingers from the egg yolk sticking and drying to his hand. 

“Oh lindo. Look at yourself,” Curly clicked his tongue, and walked towards him. “Come here, let me help you out.” He reached from his apron and dusted off a washcloth that had been pressed to his side. He took Ryan’s jaw in his hand and squeezed his cheeks, wiping off egg residue that had been falling across his tan skin.

The egg carnage only stuck to him more and Curly cursed, his eyebrows drew together. Ryan let him, he kept himself still and looked down at his best friend trying to remove the mess _he_ created. No matter the circumstance, Curly did what he had to do to keep Ryan safe, even if he risked frustrating Ryan.

He left in a hurry this morning and didn't have the chance to eat breakfast with Curly, however, he caught the aroma of homemade food from when he entered. Curly was wearing his apron today, as he saw before, a custom apron that his grandmother had given him with love and care, now sewed with pins with contrastive drawings on them.

For someone who was a few inches shorter than Ryan, he did have an eloquent vigor that even he couldn’t compete with. “Curly,” Ryan tittered, though he had his cheeks squeezed together so his words came out muffled. “Did anybody come by today?”

Curly response to him was in Spanish, since he was too deep in thought to think about it, then corrected himself when Ryan blinked at him absentmindedly. “A few people,” Curly answered in English. “What happened? Why are you sweating?”

“Uh…” Ryan actually thought about it. Since his fight-and-flight instincts held the best of him, he didn't think _twice_ of what actually happened that led to him to run over three miles on a Monday in Los Angeles. “Let me think about it.”

When Ryan is _scared_ , he screams, he mewls and maybe he’ll jump. But when he is terrified, he doesn’t think about anything before he’s out the door and reiterates all the swear words his mother would reprimand him for if he were a child. If need be, he’ll have a weapon to defend himself, but as an adult, he’s gotten enough muscle in his body that he used whenever he _needed_ to. (In only certain circumstances, he’ll punch a demon.)

The exorcism went well. He wasn’t the one who performed it, he _was_ in the room and he watched the victim’s body contour in excruciating pain before the presence of evil—or _whatever_ it was—disappeared from their body. Ryan even _talked_ to the victim after he recovered. Then what?

Oh. Right.

“I accidentally dropped the bag of the protection mix you made,” Ryan winced when Curly threw his hands up in the air, the washcloth used to clean Ryan up tossed in the air. “The herbs fell out and the demon didn't like it… I didn't know it was still in the house.”

“I have to make you _another one_?!” Curly bellowed instead, which hadn’t come off as a surprise. Once Ryan realized what he’d done back at that house, he knew that the exorcism would fly by Curly’s head. “That’s why it followed you! You were unprotected! Ryan, Limpia is no laughing matter, you have to treat it with care!”

“I didn't know the demon was _still_ in the house,” Ryan argued, he sniffed and walked to the corner of the shop, past the various dolls and blessed items. If he wanted to be safe from an entity that was out to hurt him, it would be in here. “It reached for me and before I knew it I threw Limpia instead of holy water. You don’t mind another batch, right?”

“What do I look like, a witch?” Curly sassed, then turned to the doorway of their shared apartment, “come in and eat, I’ll call someone to properly cleanse you. Regain the energy you lost and thank _me_ that I thought ahead and already worked on a second batch.”

“Thank you Curly,” Ryan crooned, suddenly excited at the mention of food. He had a piping hot bowl of chicken soup during the month of July, he groaned in bliss and ate with the man who cracked an egg on his head. 

Ryan didn't know the terminology behind Curly’s methods, and well, he didn't blame himself if he didn't. There were lots of things that he had left to learn of the art of brujería. He didn't discover the practice until he was twenty-one, promptly after moving out of his parent’s house and into a dreary apartment where his landlady knocked on his door apologizing about the poltergeist, and offered to bless his house. 

Again, he knew nothing about it. But as he embraced the idea that the paranormal world was out there and _did_ exist, he let her and watched as she did. For months she routinely filled his home with sage incense and prayed, and one time she brought in her son, Curly.

They became friends and had a shared love over the supernatural. Once they partnered up, they moved into an apartment in Southern L.A, behind a building with iridescent murals and in between a narrow alleyway. Hidden from the world of Hollywood, people sought them out from relatives and neighbors—from friends and employers. People asked for a practitioner in brujería for solace, and throughout the years, Curly had become a practitioner.

Anybody who wanted proof of the paranormal came to Ryan. 

He only had one valuable piece of evidence locked away. Footage from his trip to the Queen Mary (when he and his friends saved up enough money to visit) at Long Beach. Even though it was all he conclusively had, he swore that he’ll never return again. He sought out other locations locally, did house-calls and had asked permission to witness exorcisms from native priests.

Ryan was skeptical growing up, even if he had loved horror movies, he was doubtful ghosts were real. Queen Mary had brought out the desire to expose the paranormal. And throughout the years, he began to live in a place with paper mache chandeliers, dolls of all kinds and sizes, with the constant aroma of rosemary sticking onto him like moths to a flame.

It was all Ryan knew for seven years; since most of his friends severed contact with him after he publicly came out with his evidence of the paranormal.

Again, thankful of the opportunities he was given when he met Curly, he ate all of his soup and asked for seconds. 

* * *

Ryan wasn’t a morning person. He could never wake up as early as anybody could, much less like Curly who woke up reasonably early to start his day. But today, he had a reason to obey his alarm and spring up on the bed as when he heard its dreadful tune. 

His bare feet hit the cold, solid floor and he recoiled. Nestled within his warm body to reserve heat, he shuffled over bundles of clothing and sneakers on his way to the television in the living room. 

Their apartment never was fully unlit; in the rare mornings where Ryan woke up before noon, he would languidly walk towards the couch and sit there, watching programs that nobody paid attention to _but_ fell asleep to. And because Ryan couldn’t stop himself from doing so, they left the kitchen light on just in case he took a tumble.

After turning on the television, Ryan saw the first program appear on his screen. His eyes adjusted to the bright light and he squinted—this… looked weird. The program wasn’t the news at all, it was an infomercial for a product he wouldn’t think of getting, so he changed the channel to another infomercial, then another, then a catalog channel. He did this twice until he realized that the sun _wasn’t_ out.

He groaned and he turned to the clock they had in the kitchen that read 3:52 AM. Fuck, man. Ryan threw the remote on the couch and dove to the crease of the couch. How does this keep happening? Him, waking up in the middle of the night and without realizing that he fell asleep and telling himself that an alarm woke him.

With four hours to kill, Ryan watched the infomercial on the channel with a frown.

He debated on making himself a bowl of cereal for a split second before his body fell vertically on the couch and turned the television off. If he planned better—and he did, _he swears_ —the morning news headline would be of Susan Parker’s cause of death, followed by footage of the infamous man in charge of the case. His team would have a statement ready either today or tonight, but with no time to lose before the killer strikes again, they _had_ to do it now.

Ryan had never personally met anyone in charge of the case. Though, he flew to Chicago after the Roseberry twins were murdered. He teamed up with a researcher targeting the case with his own opinion as to _what could have happened_. Ryan didn't know how he felt about it, a demon killing two women before getting away to kill another?

He didn't know if it was true to begin with.

Until the talks of witchcraft came into light, and _that’s_ when Ryan accepted to go with him to the press conference in Chicago. It was crowded and Ryan was too far to get a good look at Steven Lim, but his partner disregarded humility and caused paranoia in Chicago because of his abrupt question.

Ryan didn't get a chance to get a follow-up of what occurred after, but he knew that Chicago fell further into their discomfort after Susan Parker, the Roseberry’s neighbor and sole witness, was killed.

But.

Who is doing it? What kind of person would do this to people they once knew or had known? Are they even human? If it was a demon, would they have remorse—

“Ryan?”

Ryan’s eyes flew open, he blinked dazedly before he heard Curly speak to him and gently place his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. He didn't notice that he had dozed off. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and winced. He slept unnaturally, their couch wasn’t one to relax in at all and his neck had been resting on a flat surface.

His back cracked when he sat up, his left arm left numb with noticeable marks from the zipper on his hoodie and his throat felt parched. “Did I—did I fall asleep?”

“I guess so? How did you fall asleep here when I saw you go into your room? Are you going crazy? Do you want milk?”

“Milk…” Ryan drawled then his eyes rounded. His brain remembered why and how he got there in the first place. “What time is it?” 

“Half past eleven. I was in the kitchen all morning until I saw you here. Be honest Ryan, did you spill lavender oil on yourself again?”

“What? Wha—no, I—accidentally woke up at three. I meant to go watch the news. Susan’s—”

“Oh right,” Curly patted Ryan’s back and sat next to him. He wore his tank top today, and Ryan got a glimpse of the tattoo that ran across his forearm, “they announced her cause of death already. The statement was really short—”

“You watched it?!” Ryan cuffed a hand over his mouth and aggressively wiped the drool that lingered there. He reached for the fallen remote and turned the television on. The infomercial now gone, replaced with a vivid show, the hosts spoke Spanish and Ryan tuned his ears in for anything he could translate. “What did they say?”

“She was strangled to death, Ryan. There weren't as many people this time around. That lady you saw before was missing too.”

“And Shane Madej?”

“Who?”

Ryan waved his hands, “the private investigator, the—the skeptic, the one who asked reporters to keep quiet."

“I’m—I’m not sure, sorry Ryan, it was short, come here,” Curly stood up, offering his hand to a crushed Ryan. He knew that the authorities would have somehow _kept_ it short but to say that she was strangled to death? That’s it? Is that the coverage Susan Parker was going to get? “You should eat breakfast.”

Ryan’s eyes darted to the ecstatic show on his television, threw himself backwards and folded his arms over his stomach. “I will in a minute.”

Despite the promise that he would wash up and eat, Ryan snuck back into his room. As Curly stepped out, he decided that a few minutes of working wouldn’t kill him before eating. 

(“Ryan! Stop working! Come here and eat your eggs!”)

Except that his roommate would never let him. 

Ryan’s morning was just like that; slow. He took care of himself first (with Curly pestering him) before heading out. Because he missed the conference, Ryan couldn’t do much but buy a newspaper from across the street and highlight the major points written by a journalist.

So far, half of the newspaper was his own writing _over_ the initial words. Hopefully nobody is looking in through the window because if they saw the mess Ryan’s made with this newspaper, they would assume he’s gone bonkers. 

“Here,” something thumped on Ryan’s desk and he leapt in his chair, he took his hand away from his face and looked away from the book he was reading. On the table was a pouch, burgundy in color and tied loosely with a brown shoelace. It reeked, the aroma of sage oil and scorched botanicals filled his nostrils.

“Limpia?” Ryan asked. Curly nodded his head and jutted out his hip, “I thought I said that if you couldn’t—”

“But I can,” Curly interrupted, he began to dig into the box by Ryan’s desk. That box served as a metaphor for _Pandora’s Box_. They never open the box unless _absolutely_ needed. It had a lock, then another lock, then had a key that one of them had to reach for from the highest shelf to unlock both locks. 

“Look at me,” Curly caught Ryan’s attention. In Curly’s hand was a brown pouch, he swung it from its improvised tie to make sure Ryan was _looking_ . He had to do this a couple of times since Ryan is identical to a stubborn child and he tends to lose focus right away. Almost hypnotizing him, Curly beamed, “I made a large batch by accident, Maya delivered too much rosemary to us. It will be in this box okay? If you lose yours or if you need to protect somebody, it will be in _here_.”

Ryan nodded to himself, though he was losing his mind, he kept a note of the minuscule bag in the box they rarely go for. He wordlessly watched as Curly organized the items he had in the box, the herbal bag the center point just in case Ryan needed to grab it in a hurry. 

Ryan didn't practice brujería, not even when Curly offered to teach him. He tried to stay away from the practice, although learning didn't hurt him. Curly was superstitious like himself, he wouldn’t go far to learn dark magic in fear that if he had, he would face the consequences. Ryan just strapped himself in and enjoyed the ride.

He knew a few things from memory, not to execute, but to expand his mind of the unknown. From what he knew—or one of the few rituals he experienced—was Limpia. A spirit cleansing of his soul from deep within, or as Curly likes to call it—purifying after demon hunting. Curly had taken such ritual and instead of performing it countlessly, he offered an alternative. (And to-go, too!)

At first, he couldn’t get used to the intense stench of botanicals in his pocket and cats thought of him as living catnip. 

(“That’s why we can’t have a cat,” Curly said one day, “they would eat all of our herbs.”)

As a brujo, Curly had tremendous knowledge and experience with his family. Ryan—Ryan only had his mother tell him to be aware of his surroundings and to be careful of what he does. Curly doesn’t let him leave until Ryan knows the importance of _being safe_.

“When you leave tomorrow,” Curly fiddled with the locked box, “do not forget to say a prayer and _do_ _not_ forget your holy water.”

Yes, Ryan knew that. Though, the reminder did help. He crossed his arms on the desk, resting his head atop of his forearm, “are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I’m not, but I know that you’re thinking about going somewhere.”

Ryan clicked his tongue and held his head up with his palm. It’s been hours since he’s been at his desk, and he’s gotten _nowhere_. “Do you think they’ll let me have a copy of Susan Parker’s autopsy?”

“Sure!” Curly smiled, blatantly playful. His jewelry moved with him, swung with the imbalance as their owner jumped to his feet. “But how do you know nobody tampered with it?”

Ryan thought about it, squinting his eyes, “good point. Is there a spell to know if somebody is a liar?”

“You can’t go anywhere without losing a pouch of herbs, you think I’ll tell you that? _Por Dios._ ” 

Ryan held in a laugh as Curly pinched his ear, he thought that it was fair, he couldn’t even think about performing a spell without Curly behind him _actually_ guarding him. Ryan planned to work for another couple of hours when he heard the echo of something he infrequently heard on a Tuesday night.

The sound of the bell atop their shop rang, the jingle lingered for a second before Ryan and Curly locked eyes to silently ask each other if anybody was coming to visit them. When Ryan didn't get an answer from Curly, he stood up and held the pouch of Limpia in his hand.

Apart from _actual_ customers; kids and teenagers walk into their shop without concern and may conjure up either a mess on accident or on purpose. This happened often, though one look at Ryan scared them off without thinking about it. If that was the case now, they would hear laughter and loud voices; Ryan heard _nothing_.

“Is it the demon? Are they here?” Ryan whispered to Curly and stepped in front of him as they tip-toed their way through their house and towards the entrance of their store.

“I don’t think so. Intruders?”

“Not very great intruders. Are you sure nobody made an appointment?”

“No—” Curly took hold of Ryan’s forearm the second they stood at the exit of their conjoined apartment to the shop. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ryan.”

“I won’t, stay here.”

Ryan and Curly’s shop had artifacts that even they were wary of touching. Some of them (or at least the most dangerous, according to Curly,) were locked up or had a protective shield around them. With Ryan’s luck, he was waiting for the sound of glass breaking or the scream of somebody who cursed themselves for touching _one_ item they weren’t supposed to without precaution.

He heard nothing when he entered the shop, he kept his eyes peeled as he walked, all of the items seemed to be in place, they didn't leave their money there, so _stealing_ wouldn’t be an issue. Ryan turned the corner all of a sudden, and let out a shriek when somebody stood there.

“Jesus!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” He heard shuffling first, then looked up with his hand on his chest to see a young woman. 

She wore a gown, or, from the looks of it, transparent cream dress with a black robe guarding her from the cold. Her brown hair tied in a ponytail with several strands sticking out, and her features soft with little to no wrinkles. She looked to be around his age at least. Her appearance alone deducted that her visit was impulsive as she must have been winding down. Was she lost?

“Sorry,” he mirrored her words and lifted his hands in front of him, “I thought you were an intruder.”

“Oh,” she perked up, straightening her back and shook her head. “No, no. Mi mamá, Maribel, sent me here. She said that you helped her before? Ryan Bergara.”

“Yes…” Although Ryan’s reputation wasn’t great, he had seen and met _lots_ of people. Maribel didn't ring a bell to him, it must have been a long time ago since she sent her daughter to him. “What can I help you with?”

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered, “it’s strange. I live with my husband and my child, it began with our things missing—and we thought that it was our fault. But there’s no explanation when things would fall on their own or cabinets opening… could it be a curse? Did someone hex my family?”

“I can’t be sure, maybe? But!” He raked his hand through his hair when the woman began to mutter to herself and intertwine her fingers. “It may also be a spirit, Curly and I can help you before it gets out of hand.”

“Does it usually get out of hand?”

“Not… often,” Ryan hesitated. If there was one thing that he knew, it was that poltergeists happen in rare occasions, unexplained occurrences because somebody hexed their family or hid a bad luck charm somewhere in the vicinity of their home. 

Although, he couldn’t tell when it would turn into a poltergeist.

He’s no expert, but it _was_ common sense that a spirit haunting you didn't sound ideal.

“Is anybody in your family hurt?” A voice beside Ryan called, he was torn from his own internal thoughts to see Curly walk into the store. He had a concerned expression on his face, his lips curled downward as he strode to the young woman. Taking her pallid hands in his, Curly reassured her with what Ryan could translate as _it’s okay, we can help you_.

In the silence of their shop, the woman pressed her lips in a thin line, she fought back tears as she sighed, “how can I repay you? This is a miracle.”

“You don’t need to,” Curly shook his head, and gave Ryan a glance before turning back to her. “Come, we’ll talk in the kitchen. _Algo se te ofrece_? _Un café_?”

Ryan took this as a sign to let them go on their own; the look Curly gave him wasn’t _just_ a look.

Living with Curly, working with him and learning of the spiritual realm gave him ideas as to how to handle a probable ghost infestation or hex. The woman left behind reminiscences of her home, as she walked away, there was a hint of possession behind her. 

Curly wouldn’t invite her into their house if she was hexed, or she couldn’t simply walk in with the various blessed items in the house to counter the hex. So, this was _his_ line of work. 

If he remembered correctly. Ghosts fed off energy, demons feed off negative energy. If they were lucky, the ghost would be in the room with Ryan instead of their house following the woman. Ryan blocked out his ears to listen in the shop; though the faint voices of Curly and the woman rang in his ears, he caught the hush of the room. 

“Hello?” he whispered, “I—I won’t hurt you. If anything, I’m more scared of you than you are of me.”

Nothing. Ryan kept his ears open for anything though, and started to walk further into the shop. His anxiety grew as he realized that he was alone, but if something happened to him, Curly was a few steps away. His comfort was limited, though he held the pouch of Limpia in his hand closely.

“I just want to know if you are here with me, could you make something fall?” He went on wearily, ducking down one of the paper mache chandeliers and looked for the device he was given years prior. 

“Come on,” he encouraged, maintaining his silence in between questions. “I know you can do it. The—” The sound of a tap next to one of the glass cases shielding an item stopped him and he paused. 

Frozen, Ryan breathed as he tried to make sense of what he just heard. Was it him or was it something there with him? Fuck. He shut his eyes and tried to remember that if it were a demon, he would know if he’s its source for energy.

“Was that you?” He opened his eyes to see the shop, illuminated by the fluorescent lights above, colors of blue, pink, purple and white covered his vision, tokens that had been part of his childhood and Curly’s surrounded him and he saw what had fallen before. 

A rosary was on the floor, curled into itself next to the altar Curly’s grandmother made for them. It must have been from there, otherwise, how would it have gotten there? The rosary was gold in color, the cross a faded red and was cold to the touch as Ryan picked it up. 

“This—hold on,” he walked to the device he promised to use on certain occasions, “this is going to be loud, I’m sorry. But you can speak to me with this,” the sound of static invaded his eardrums and Ryan was left alone with the device in hand, the rosary and his fear of being eaten alive.

* * *

On days where Ryan and Curly closed the shop, Ryan spent his time working at his father’s dentist office. A few days after Susan Parker’s autopsy was announced to the public, Ryan found himself with him. He had his eyes glued to a newspaper clipping and the other hand holding his head up. The afternoon sun illuminated the room, with the soft glow of orange and yellow, and with the sound of his father’s tools from the other room, Ryan felt his eyes droop on their own.

Working on four hours of sleep, he had an peculiar week overall. Maribel’s daughter returned with her family for a cleansing from Curly’s associates and soon after, Ryan hadn’t gotten another reply from the spirit that had followed her and her family. With nothing left to do, he could only hope that they had moved on to find peace or had escaped and decided to haunt somebody else.

It was a possibility he had to accept, and unfortunately, Ryan could never know if the spirit left forever. He told this to the family, being as truthful as he could and offered to help. He didn't ask for money from any of the people who needed his and Curly’s help, their safety was their sole concern, never payment.

So, that’s why he had to work.

“Ryan? Did you get any sleep?” Without looking up, Ryan nodded his head. He heard the sound of the door opening and the customer his father was tending to walked out. As they spoke, Ryan put away the newspaper, crossed his arms and laid his exhausted head on them. 

He felt his father’s hand on the back of his head soon after, a comforting touch but also, his father softly warned him: “I’ll tell your mother if you lie.”

Ryan laughed, he moved his head to see his father, “I’m an adult,” he replied, contemplating if his father would keep teasing him, “she’ll get mad at me. But I’ve heard it before.”

“I will too,” his father continued, removing his hand from Ryan’s head and sighed. “It is a pain to see my own son work as much as I do. Maybe you should go to school. We can pay—” 

Ryan’s father shut his mouth when his son sat up and buried his hands into his hair. He tried not to show it but he felt exasperated already and Ryan frowned at his father. Without words, they knew that it wasn’t going to happen and decided to drop it. Ryan had this talk with his parents at twenty-one when he was moving out and no longer depending on them. 

It was for the sake of Ryan’s brother, Jake, rather than his own. They weren’t rich, nobody was. And Ryan’s career choice didn't require a degree, (could you imagine? A degree in ghost hunting.)

Jake _wants_ to go to college and to pay for it, his parents had to work more frequently; if Ryan went to college, they would be financially troubled even without telling him. He knew he was nearing his thirties and he knew more than everyone that they’d never been blessed with money.

Despite that, Ryan’s parents never exhibited their concern to their children. Jake believed that they were fine, and it would remain like that because their parents were so happy, so delighted to have happy, healthy children. 

Well, except for Ryan.

Ryan could physically count the amount of times his mother barged into his apartment, heedful of knocking over antiques and chiding Ryan for working himself to the bone. (Curly would join in and they would talk all afternoon.) His father showed his concern differently, he just told him that it was okay to miss work sometimes.

Even days where Ryan worked with him, and caught him fast asleep on his desk, he wouldn’t wake him up. 

Today, Ryan’s father let him be. 

“Maybe you should get married.”

Nevermind.

“How would that resolve my sleeping schedule?” Ryan played along, straightening his aching back on the seat he sat in. 

“They’ll make sure you’re getting enough sleep,” Ryan’s father went on, and he chuckled when Ryan’s smile grew wider, “you don’t believe me now, but your mother made sure I got over eight hours of sleep. She still does,” he inclined his head and laughed when _Ryan_ giggled.

“I’m serious, Ryan, _stop laughing_ ,” his father chastised him, “your mother is asking about her grandchildren. Maybe that nice lady that came to see you on your day off? What about her?” 

Ryan was about to throw in another set of chuckles before he paused, his father’s words registered in his head. Lady? “What lady?”

His eyebrows drew together and he turned to his father who had taken his leave to the next room. “Who? Who came here?” The hairs on his arms stood up momentarily and his mind spiraled into theories of who that lady might be. Supernatural or not, his father’s dentist office was small with locals as his customers, not a lot of people he didn't know came here.

“This—woman, she was tall and blonde. She introduced herself as your friend. I don’t remember what her name was but she called earlier when you were asleep,” his father shrugged, “she wanted to know where you lived—Oh! Kelsey, her name was Kelsey.”

With alarms blaring in his head, Ryan scrambled to remember why that name sounded familiar. He stared at the wall parallel to his father and _thought_. Who? Was there a ghost he recently met named Kelsey? Kelsey—

Suddenly, he remembered, and like the wind picked up outside, Ryan stood up from his chair and slammed his hands on the desk. “Dad, I gotta go.” Grabbing his things in a haste, he blamed himself for acting too carelessly and _for_ being so sleep deprived.

Now a fuck—an investigator is going to his house, where Curly is, _alone._ “I’ll call you later! Hug mom and Jake for me!” As his father said his own confused goodbyes, Ryan ran out the door faster than he could breathe like he had at the haunted house he went to a few years ago. 

He sent himself to a sprint, his legs took him from his father’s dentist office to the bus stop. His father, unlike Ryan, actually worked in a decent part of California; Arcadia where he had been raised, and Ryan had no choice but to take the bus to his house half an hour away. 

Ryan tapped his leg the whole ride, anxious that his roommate slash best friend would be in jail or interrogated for something Ryan must have done. What was he thinking? Going to that press conference with an actual conspiracy theorist who doesn’t know where the line is? 

Now he’s placed himself, Curly, and his father in danger unwillingly. Preparing himself for the worst, he stood up before the bus slowed to a full stop and ran out; he was sweating from the summer heat as he did, holding his hoodie in one hand and his backpack over his shoulder. 

Nothing could compete to the sigh of relief when he saw the alleyway to his shop. At first he heard nothing but the commotion on his street, it was quiet and Ryan wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. 

He opened the door to his store and ignored the bell. The store was unlit, aside from the half-closed blinds, Ryan did not see anything out of place. He held his breath as he walked, “Curly? I’m home!” He was seconds away from taking the baseball bat next to the door when a cheerful _I’m in the kitchen!_ echoed through the walls of their house.

Ryan froze, was that a trap? A cry for help? He took the baseball bat in his hand anyway and walked towards the kitchen. He saw nothing when he stepped into his house at first until he spotted the bizarre scent radiating from the stove. “What’s that smell?”

“You tell me,” a voice he wasn’t familiar with imposed with their conversation and Ryan gasped, holding the baseball bat in both hands, and huddled to Curly’s side.

Kelsey Darragh sat at his kitchen table calmly. Not even a blink of an eye or a twitch from Ryan holding up the baseball bat. She smiled as she peered at him, her stare nothing but an imitation to Ryan and he slowly lowered the baseball bat. Finally, he looked at Curly leaning on their counter, tapping his nails on the marble and looked at Ryan with an apathetic reflection of Kelsey’s expression.

Without bringing attention to him, Ryan narrowed his eyes at Curly’s apparent attempt to hide something from Kelsey. “Ryan, this is Kelsey Darragh, she wants to have a word with you.”

Knowing that Curly was safe, Ryan lowered the baseball bat to the floor and returned his gaze to Kelsey. “With me?”

She rested her hands on the table, and observed his every move. “Detective Kelsey Darragh. I’m here for you, Ryan Bergara.”

“I—” Opposite from being afraid, Ryan’s first impulse to _I’m here for you_ is to laugh nervously, then: “I knew Shane Madej would kill me eventually. I didn't think that he’d sent you to do it.”

“ _Ryan_ ,” Curly suddenly declared, his voice unwavering but when Ryan turned to him, baseball bat still in hand, Ryan could see Curly grow tired to hide whatever it was that he _was_ hiding. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

There were limited options that Ryan had, for one, he had to see what Curly was hiding from Kelsey Darragh, even though she didn't seem to mind whatever it might have been. She worked with government officials and _knew_ police officers, Ryan’s sure that she’s seen worse than Curly hiding… Ryan inclined his head slightly, was it oil?

Kelsey Darragh had her legs crossed, her navy blue jeans unwrinkled, and her button down tucked in her thin waist. She had jewelry on her, but Ryan knew that she loved fashion, and wasn’t reluctant to show it off. She’s an investigator, (behind Shane Madej) on the Roseberry case, and the advocate of the anti-paranormal movement.

“Sure,” Ryan finally let out, he exaggeratedly staggered to the counter where Curly leaned on, making sure that his back wasn’t to Kelsey, who took another sip of her tea. “What’s going on?” He murmured, “are you okay?”

“I am,” Curly tapped his fingers on the counter, “I don’t know what she’s doing here.”

“What are you doing, Curly?” A spark of fear crossed Ryan’s heart when he saw Curly look down at his closed fist. He knew—he knew that if he opened it, he would let out the strong aroma of whatever he had in hand. Curly had done things that stunk the neighborhood before, and if Kelsey took a sniff of it (even without protection) she could be accidentally exposed to unwanted fumes. 

“I—I can explain—”

“I know that you’re hiding something from me,” a female voice interrupted them and Ryan flinched, the tone of Kelsey’s voice was stronger than he anticipated, it was imitating from the start and Ryan moved in front of Curly on impulse. “I’m not planning to call the police to arrest anybody. Don't be a tight ass, why does it smell like burnt grass? Do you both smoke?”

“No!” Curly and Ryan shouted, now suddenly afraid that they’ll be foolishly arrested for possession of drugs, Curly showed Kelsey and Ryan what he had hidden. 

Petals of a flower were crushed in his hands mixed with a couple of burnt botanicals were exposed to the both of them and they had identical expressions written on their faces. Ryan didn't know what Curly was doing before Kelsey came over, much less did Kelsey. 

Curly sighed, “I was learning how to make Lasciva and I accidentally burnt herbs for an aromatic mix."

La—

Oh no.

“What’s Lasciva?”

“It’s an oil that enhances sexual desire and lust—”

“Stop, okay,” Ryan held up his hand and stood in front of Curly and stared at Kelsey, “you don’t need to know anything about what we’re doing here. Although it has _nothing_ to do with Lasciva—anyway, why are you here?”

Kelsey hadn’t moved since Curly showed her what he had in hand, instead, she finished most of the tea she was given and hooked her shoes around the kitchen chair legs. “Why are you secretive Ryan Bergara? Wasn’t it you who released the infamous Queen Mary video? Why is the practice of brujeria in your own house something you want to hide?”

What?

“What?” Ryan uttered out loud, “how… how do you know that?”

“You don’t think I have a clue how to find people?”

“But in Chicago? Why does the—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Curly halted their back-and-forth, his hand had residual charred petals and unwaveringly washed his hands under their working sink, “could you take this somewhere else? The smell is too strong and you might be poisoned if you inhale large amounts of it.”

“God, you test me,” Kelsey showed signs of irritation (or emotion, really) across her face for the first time and she stood up from their kitchen table, somewhat shaking it and walked into their doorway. “Come with me, _both_ of you. I had wasted enough time looking for you Mr. Bergara and I can’t afford to delay my visit anymore.”

Sure, but why?

Kelsey Darragh strut into their shop, her blonde hair flew behind her and fell across her shoulders. The moment she walked into the shop, Ryan turned to Curly, gesticulating with his hands towards their botany and Curly’s shoulders sagged as to say _I don’t know_.

“What could she want? Oh my—is she going to kill us? Is it because of the question Zack asked? I knew he was too straightforward,” he rambled in a low voice as Curly pushed him from the kitchen, throwing the unsuccessful herbal mix into their trash bin and closing it with a thud, “do you think they merc’d him? Holy shit, Zack is dead?”

“Relax,” Curly rubbed his shoulders, “nothing will happen to you as long as you’re protected.”

“But she’s _human_ ,” Ryan watched as Curly walked into the shop coolly, he reeked of flower petals, something that wasn’t rare in his line of work. Many people did ask for sexual attraction and lustful partners and Lasciva oil was one that Curly had wanted to expertise recently. “I hope she doesn’t think the oil is for me, I’m perfectly fine.”

Back into the shop, Curly turned on the lights to see Kelsey mindlessly surveyed their tarot decks and the paper mache chandeliers, “I’m sure she’s thinking about other things.”

“Bergara,” with the sound of his last name, Ryan straightened up, “what is all of this?”

“It… depends,” Ryan replied, his legs betrayed him and strolled over to her side. Despite her appearance, Ryan was slightly taller than her even with heels on. But she didn't let that hinder her and picked up a miniature mannequin; the mannequin’s face deformed and splattered with acrylic paint, “that’s a gift from one of our older customers. When we help them, we receive gifts in return, sometimes artifacts passed down generations to keep them safe.”

“Help with what? Finding ghosts?”

Ryan wanted to laugh, the way she held the mannequin had him on alarm though, and he decided to stand his ground. “Welcome to California, Kelsey Darragh, I doubt you traveled all the way here from Chicago to dismiss the job I do. I like helping people, I’m sure you understand what that must feel like.”

Kelsey’s head jerked in his direction, her eyes gleamed, intrigued as she placed the mannequin back on its shelf. “You’re a fuck load more confident than I thought you’d be. You’re aware that I’m working on the Roseberry homicide case.”

Ryan knew that more than anybody in Los Angeles, even Zack couldn’t have known his theories of the case. The theories of the corrupt police force or the theory that witchcraft was involved, or even demons. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m here to ask you to—” she paused and scratched her forehead, she seemed as if she didn't want to finish her sentence, “I’m here to ask for your help on the case.”

Ryan blinked. 

They wanted—what? His help? 

Sorry, they wanted _what?!_

“My help? What… but I’m not a detective, I’m hardly a real investigator.”

“Our target has not been caught, Bergara. He has killed three people and we have yet to find a suspect. Shane Madej has his hands full. The press isn’t making it easier for us either,” Kelsey continued, “there is little time before our perpetrator tries to kill again, if you come with me to Chicago—”  
  
“Wait, wait, _stop_ ,” Curly cut her off, he didn't intrude physically—even though Ryan knew he probably wanted to—but kept his distance, “you want Ryan to go with you to Chicago so he’ll be _closer_ to this killer? Just for input on the case?”

“ _No_ ,” Kelsey frowned at Curly’s assumption, she held her nose, “he will be safe, he will not leave the lodging provided for him alone and Shane Madej will be with him at the office. He knows how to yield a gun.”

_No he doesn’t_ , Ryan thought. He remembered two years ago when Shane Madej had uncovered a suspect living in somebody’s basement; to which he had kept the house’s owners hostage for hours before Shane barged in and shot the killer in the shoulder when he meant to shoot him in the _leg_.

“We need him to be our paranormal investigator for both the case and to ease the public’s worry; the theory of the sisters performing demonic rituals _is_ taking off and the public wants input from somebody who understands what that means. To give us some time away from press releases and media coverages, you’ll be in charge to see if… if this is a case where something _out_ _of our realm_ is involved. Do you understand?”

He did.

But Ryan doesn’t know either!

Lots of misconceptions about paranormal investigators lie on the fact that they didn't know _everything_. While Ryan can try to communicate with any type of spirit, he had trouble explaining why and how it exactly worked. The words that vibrated from EVPs of his man made spirit box were incomprehensible, and the unexplained footsteps and items falling from their spots didn't help either.

If a demon killed three people, then what are the chances that Ryan would figure that one out? Zero to none.

“Demons do exist,” Ryan claimed instead, “but I don’t guarantee that I would actually _prove_ that the serial killer is one. The public might be interested in the idea that satanism within the family and friends associated with the Roseberrys is better than a killer on the loose in their neighborhood.”

And like that, Ryan had closed the theory that he had invested all his time in. For good reason. He didn't want to seem like a fool on camera, much less to the public. His family was accessible to find, Kelsey had proven that already, and if Ryan went to Chicago, stood beside a man who _actually_ knew how to catch serial killers in his free time, spouting about paranormal activity—Ryan wouldn’t hear the last of it. 

“Then,” Kelsey lifted a hand, “we’ll keep you away from the public eye. Look into any residual evidence of the paranormal.”

“I’m not an expert,” Ryan let out a deep exhale, he turned around to catch Curly’s eyes and hopefully take his side.

Curly seemed taken back at this however, and decided to comment, “Ryan, maybe you should think about this.”

It was Ryan’s turn to look at him, astonished, mouthing _what_ and blinks excessively as Curly silenced him with a glare. “Think about it, you didn't spend too much time enjoying yourself in Chicago, _and_ not only would you be able to help a family find answers of their daughter’s murder.”

“It’s a demon!” Ryan suddenly exclaimed, “maybe! Who knows! How would anybody catch a demon! It’s not like I could set down bait for it! Unless it was a literal human being or it could be exorcised if it was in a human’s body or a protection spell—why are you both looking at me like that? I’m _not_ going!”

...

Twenty-four hours later, Ryan was about to board the plane that was about to take him to his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Brujeria:_ Witchcraft.  
>  _Limpia/Lasciva:_ Limpia is a cleansing ritual and Lasciva means lustful or lewd.  
>  _Lindo:_ Lovely and/or cute.  
>  _Por Dios:_ Oh, for God's sake.  
>  _Mi Mamá:_ My mother.  
>  _Algo se te ofrece? Un café?:_ Do you want anything [to drink?] A cup of coffee?


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone o/ I've returned with the next chapter!!!!! Ryan and Shane meet~~  
> I've started classes again this Wednesday and already I have a couple of research papers to do, orz. So updates are most likely going to slow down a bit but it will not be abandoned! Have 4 chapters to edit still!!
> 
> This chapter opens another set of lots of research, so remember it's all fiction!!  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!!! Thank you all for leaving kudos, I'm glad you're all enjoying it!

**AUGUST 1988**   
**Los Angeles, California**

Curly tampered with Ryan’s sweater, his hands shrewdly caressed his upper chest. It was summertime, and yet, Curly demanded that Ryan wore a sweater just to hide the vials of oil and herbal pouches he had on him. He probably reeked of it though, nobody raised an eyelash even if he did.

“You’re not allowed to mess with any of these, Ryan, do you hear me?” Curly took Ryan’s zipper, leaning in closer to Ryan’s face, he spoke in Spanish in the middle of Los Angeles’ airport, “ _do not lose or mess with them, leave them the way they are_.” 

“ _I won’t_ ,” Ryan replied to him, spotty in his pronunciation, “I have the list in my backpack and all your numbers too. I’ll call you everyday and if you need the baseball bat, I left it inside the house by Maya’s altar.”

“Chiquito,” Curly cooed, “I won’t need it, I’ll miss your muscles and your company too. Ryan, if anything happens, please, _please_ be careful.” 

“I will,” Ryan beamed, though Curly's eyes glossed over and he took his roommate into his arms, “how hard can this be?”

The soft beat of Ryan’s heart began to increase tardily, what he had in store for himself, he didn't know. Even when Curly reciprocated his embrace, held him tight and told him that he loved him and if he needed to talk to him, he’s always free. 

Something in Ryan’s heart told him he’ll need it.

The flight from Los Angeles to Chicago was a painstakingly long, he was on the window seat at least, squished beside a stranger and who seemed to be his daughter. He’s never flown before, so his enthusiasm vanished as anxiety pumped up in his blood and he jiggled his foot as he looked around.

The plane was small, fair, considering Kelsey Darragh had gotten him a last minute flight whereas she would take a flight back tomorrow morning. Aside from waiting for her to fly to Chicago, Ryan was to meet Shane Madej and his team the next day.

Feeling out of place all of a sudden, he drew out the sounds of passengers filling in the plane, the noises of children pointing out every feature of the plane's compartments and inched closer to the window. Los Angeles’ sun was long gone, now a starry, dry sky, palm trees blowing with the wind and the lights of downtown Los Angeles before him.

He felt scared, and he was. As they took off, he held onto the pouch of Curly’s Limpia inside of his overstocked jacket, closed his restless eyes and prayed to himself. 

_Please let this go well._

When he woke, he didn't realize that he dozed off to begin with and tried to focus on the receiver’s voice crackling through the airplane's speakers. He caught the words _landing in twenty_ before he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. In a simple mistake, he wailed and grabbed the attention of the father beside him.

He raised his eyebrow at him and held his sleeping daughter closer to him when Ryan did not make another sound. He must have assumed that Ryan was afraid of heights since he was turned towards the window, watching the lightless sky and tearing up because somehow he gotten herb residue in his fucking eyes.

Like rubbing your eyes after you cut a spicy pepper… that’s exactly what he had done.

He swore to himself. He accepted that he had to cry it out, he left his seat with tears falling down his crimson cheeks and tugged his luggage around the airport. He was still drowsy, but he had the address of the hotel Kelsey had given him and would be less than an hour drive. He’s been to Chicago’s airport once before, though not alone. A wide building with technology he was interested in researching later. Lots of people flew in and out, (more than he expected on a Wednesday) and mercifully couldn't care less of what Ryan's deal was.

The different languages he’s heard in the last few minutes standing around was astounding and he _kind off_ — _sort of_ , thanked Kelsey Darragh for hauling his ass here. As he walked through the airport—crossing the glimmering lights, people asleep by their gates and closed restaurants—Ryan decided that ignoring that he was practically bleeding (tears) from his eyes wasn’t the best.

In a span of five minutes, Ryan downed an entire water bottle and continued to cry the herbs out of his eyes—whatever it is that got in his eyes—and realized that Curly was going to kill him.

Well, he had a good life.

Wiping tears from his cheeks, Ryan sniffed and continued to walk. He ignored the intrigued looks from others, who certainly speculated that Ryan was devastated to leave his city. Most of them wouldn’t know that Ryan was somehow coerced to board a plane (Kelsey dragged him by the collar, it’s true,) and now he’s here, with herbs in his eye ducts.

He let out a harsh breath and sat down in the pick up area, balling his fists and rubbing them over his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t—

“Are you crying?”

“ _Oh my God_!” He exclaimed, leaped in his chair, Ryan held his water bottle to his chest. His brain scavenged for the prayer Curly would recite to bless his water. Before he could, his gaze caught the sight of a man’s brown slacks and a checkered button down. Why do they sound familiar?

“Uh,” Ryan nervously stared at the man’s pants, “no? I’m sorry who—” he looked up, sluggishly rose from his seat. What he saw was not what he expected, the man’s face had an sympathetic look written all over, his brown hair styled in a quiff. With a glowing complexion and tall structure, Ryan realized that he was making eye contact with Steven Lim.

Steven Lim was part of Shane Madej’s team, not only _that_. If Ryan remembered correctly, he was the one who would hold press conferences and was in charge of everyone’s report from numerous cases. He wasn’t involved in a scandal like his employers and governor officials were; in turn, his coworker, Kelsey’s partner, Devon Joralmon was lead director who handled media coverage _and_ the forensic team.

Ryan knew he was gaping for far too long, so he extended his hand to Steven Lim. “Sorry! I’m Ryan Bergara, I’ve seen you on TV—I mean, obviously I did, I won’t be here if I didn't.”

Steven was a few inches taller than Ryan himself and stared at him almost as if he had lost his mind, but that didn't stop him from giving him the friendliest smile he’s seen in a few hours. Steven laughed, held out his own hand and shook Ryan’s, “I’m happy that I’m famous in Los Angeles. Ryan Bergara, are you okay? Your eyes are swollen.”

Before Ryan could somehow come up with a lie, Steven reached from his pant pocket to reveal a bag of tissues, unopened. “Here, I know it’s sad to leave L.A, hopefully you’ll feel better when you see your hotel room. Don’t be sad.”

Ryan blinked, though his eyes really _were_ swollen and the action itself made a few tears fall from his eyes. Somehow the thought of him being miserable was easier to explain instead of _having tears in my eyes from cradling a pouch of herbs and sahumero for four hours_. 

He played the part and swiped his nose, taking one of the tissues and sobbed facetiously in front of Steven Lim. He trembled for special effect and confessed: “I just… miss my mom.”

Steven awkwardly tapped his shoulder to comfort him, though he was chuckling at Ryan’s poor imitation of crying.

“I’m taking you to your hotel room,” Steven said eventually, “I’m not leaving your side until tomorrow morning when Kelsey returns.” Like the gentleman Steven was, he helped with Ryan’s luggage, swung the backpack Ryan had over his shoulder and turned to walk away. “Come with me, I’ll show you to the car.”

Ryan sniffed, “is it a limousine?”

“Would that make you feel better?” 

Ryan wasn’t sad to begin with, but it would.

...

Into the breezy, timid air of Chicago, Ryan saw that there wasn’t a limousine, or a red carpet extended for him, not a reporter in sight waiting for him but a _new_ 1988 Corvette and Steven Lim beside him with his hands shoved in his pockets. Underwhelming, but it was what Ryan thought his welcome would be, he didn't think anything defined him more than this moment.

Ryan was quiet for most of the ride, though Steven did not seem bothered. The view out of the window from Ryan’s passenger side was outstanding; downtown Chicago at the prime time of nighttime was full of life. People lingered around the sidewalks, laughing amongst each other or lonesome. 

The streets were narrow, unlike Los Angeles, where the freeways were packed with traffic at any given hour, Chicago had streets that were crowded by people themselves. He watched the sights blur pass him when Steven spoke, “is this your first time in Chicago?”

“Not… really. I was here weeks ago for your press conference,” Ryan looked away from the window and to Steven, “I’m sure you knew.”

“Maybe,” Steven smiled, his side profile lit up from downtown Chicago’s lights peering into the car’s windows as he turned to Ryan for a split moment before looking back to the road, “it seemed like it had been your first time.”

Ryan shook his head, bowed his head and peered at his sneakers. He didn't want to tell him that he spent hours on a flight with two journalists from Los Angeles and back; or how he was asleep for most of it until the second they arrived at the press conference. He was _obviously_ not going to tell him that Ryan and said journalists slept in the car in a Wal-Mart parking lot because funds were low. 

Steven didn't push it thankfully, “you’re in luck then. You’ll be staying at the hotel near the department. Kelsey must have liked you lots.” 

Ryan wasn’t sure what that meant. But he did once Steven Lim turned into the entrance of a grandeur hotel, a roman arch led Steven’s car underneath beside valet parking and halted limousines. Turning to the back of the street they were just in, Ryan stammered, “uh—I think you made the wrong turn.”

“No I didn't,” Steven replied nonchalantly, already taking off his seatbelt, parking the car under the golden arch of the hotel. “We’re here, Bergara,” he said, reaching in his leather jacket to reveal a keycard. “Protected from all possible exits, members-only. You’re on the eighteenth floor. A suite.”

“A _suite_?” Ryan squealed, taking the keycard from Steven’s hand. Unable to believe it, he cradled his holy water and the keycard all the way to his room. Eyes wide as he walked through the lobby, the concierge greeted him with a nod and guided him to the elevator used for employees. It was when he opened the suite, he realized that he wasn’t dreaming. 

It was dim inside, the light from the lamps implanted on the taupe designed wallpaper lit the room. His bed was broader than the one he slept in back home, aside from the master bathroom (with a _hot tub_ ) and a working sink. The kitchen, all ready for his disposal and stocked up with pre-paid food and drinks. 

With puffy eyes, half-opened, Ryan whistled before whirling to face Steven. “Who is paying for this?”

Steven hummed, he wasn't looking in Ryan's direction, instead, Steven took it upon himself to walk around the study area, inspecting the stationary arranged elegantly. His shoulder rose, “not me," his eyes darted to Ryan and he smiled, "Eugene probably made Madej pay. You were his idea, but his financial decision rested on Shane Madej's shoulders. He's not not fond of having you as his partner. Think about _him_ paying for your room.”

If that’s true, Ryan took the water bottle on the counter, opened it, and guzzled half of it.

After gathering the information that Ryan had to read up before tomorrow morning when Kelsey landed in Chicago, Steven left. Preferably leaving Ryan to rest up and wash his teary-eyed face before work. Which was fair. Ryan had scented botanicals in his eyes ( _healthy, pure herbs! Good for him_! shouted his imagined version of Curly) for hours; giving him the chance to wash them off in a spotless, expensive bathroom was god’s given gift for him. 

“ _Dice… it says rinse for ten minutes. Then rest for air_ — _Ryan, eres tan estúpido._ ”

“I know I'm an estupido,” Ryan kept his eyes opened manually, his thumb under his eye and his index finger stretched his eyelid. He rinsed the herbs out of his right eye before calling Curly, because he _knew_ —he knew that he would be berating him. This had been the first time where Ryan and Curly were separated for an unforeseen amount of time; that didn't stop Curly from calling to know _where_ Ryan was staying and exactly what _room_ number he was in. To check up on him, he didn't comment on Ryan's attempt at reiterating Spanish and said:

“ _Limpia is made of healing herbs. They won’t hurt you_.”

“Hurts like a bitch,” Ryan muttered, scratching his hair and reaching for his toothbrush. “Has it been ten minutes?”

Curly’s voice lowered, “ _it’s been three. Aside from your eye. How is it? Chicago? Is it amazing_?”

“Expensive,” Ryan mused, rubbing the side of his eye when herb residue fell out with the cool water. “Steven Lim picked me up.”

A gasp, “ _no_!”

“Yes,” Ryan blinked excessively, water fell from his eye ducts, over his cheeks and cringed at how Steven had seen him with bloodshot eyes knowing that he was initially from Los Angeles. He rested the mobile phone on his shoulder, the antenna pressed to his temple, “the room. You won’t believe it, it has a huge _ass_ bed. I’m using a sink with cold water, and—”

“ _A working sink_?”

“Yeh!” Ryan stuck his toothbrush in his mouth, “has kitchen too, Steven sa’d that Shane M’dej was payin’ so…”

“ _Shane Madej isn’t paying for your fancy room,_ ” Ryan rolled his eyes, turning off the faucet and brushed his teeth. “ _He’s not your sugar daddy._ ”

Ryan choked, groaned as he scrubbed the inside of his mouth and held the large phone to his ear correctly. “Don’ say th’t.”

“ _It’s nice to wish about right_?” Ryan tuned his friend out as he washed up, he's no stranger to talking about men over the phone with Curly, but _Shane Madej_? Not in a million years, “ _he does have a handsome face. Not bad. Maybe he’s sweet to you_ —”

Rinsing his mouth, Ryan let Curly fantasize about the man he’s going to work for until the case is solved. Then again, he’s there to make sure the public isn’t going back-shit crazy over the rumor spreading around about the deceased sisters. So, perhaps, Shane Madej isn’t fond of him to begin with and is planning to make his life a living hell for the next whoever knows how long. 

Thinking that it’s best to read ahead, Ryan set the case file in front of him on the bed. “I’m going to sleep, Curly. It’s two hours behind in L.A right? What's the plan for tomorrow?”

“ _Your mom is agreed to keep me company tomorrow. My grandmother is moving in until you get back. I won’t be alone Ryan._ ”

That was _instant_ relief for Ryan. Thinking back to the Limpia that Curly packed for him, Curly knew ahead what to do to stop making Ryan worry about him or himself. “I guess I’ll let you go for now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“ _Please do!_ _I want to hear everything about it! Especially about Shane Madej_!”

If Ryan gets to live that long. What he knew about his partner was limited as he was a mysterious, private man in the first place. But his knowledge of the case was extensive—in the next hour and a half before sleeping, Ryan turned on a nighttime program on the television and read up on the case file Steven Lim gave him.

It was simplified, inordinately compacted with information that Ryan knew just by reading the headlines of the newspapers in L.A. But a few details, from copies of the autopsies and the transcripts of interrogations from eyewitnesses were out of his reach and now in his hands. It made the case complicated, a bit intrusive when Ryan read that the Roseberry sisters were both killed at the same time and their murderer probably was hired by a third dead party.

His eyebrows drew together when nothing about dark magic or demonic rituals were written in the files. Did that mean… he had to figure that out on his own? Sighing, he tossed the file back into the manila folder and leaned backwards on the bed frame. That was the most idiotic way to be humiliated and make a fool of himself. And he probably _had_ to.

No longer interested in the case and rather wanting to sleep, he stacked the papers and reached for a lone one from the bottom of the stack. He paused, tilted his head as he read _Madej, A. Shane_ on the corner of it. Pulling it out gently, he skimmed through the words before looking if there was a back page attached. There wasn’t, but Ryan was surprised by the amount of effort placed in a piece of paper.

As he thought, Shane Madej’s personal assistant Devon Joralmon edited this synopsis from the reports her coworker, Steven, had in his possession. Writing down what she wanted Ryan to know and what he was _allowed_ to speak about. His picture was mundane, his birthday, his age, and everything else typed out didn't stand out to him. He knew all of this. 

But. Under the _note_ section of the paper, written in actual pen was cursive handwriting: _He is a skeptic. Please do not feel burdened to work with him. He is a nice person._

_I hope so, Devon_ , _I really do._

* * *

  
  


“Rise and _shine_!” 

The sound of someone in the hotel room awoke him. Ryan heard footsteps around the room, none taken as an effort to keep quiet for him to continue his slumber. Rather, he was exposed to the sunlight blinding through the window. Crossing his arm over his eyes, he groaned and his forehead creased. “So early…”

“Wake up,” someone tapped his bare shoulder, their hand warm and docile. “Kelsey is giving you half an hour to get ready… you should take advantage of it.”

Ryan tossed one of the white pillows over his head. _Or what? She’ll push me out of the room half-awake?_

He opened his eyes, hurled the pillow away. _She will._ “I’m awake, I’m awake,” he murmured, and jolted upright, stretching his limbs above his head. “I am not dressed, whoever it is, I recommend turning around.”

A laugh was heard across him, and he scratched the back of his bed hair. Making eye contact at seven in the morning with Devon Joralmon (while he was… literally half naked,) was _not_ in the job application. And he couldn’t help but yelp and cover himself with the bed sheet.

He felt his face heat up, his cheeks turned scarlet, “I am… so sorry.”

Devon wasn’t tall, she was shorter than Kelsey. Her features with soulful, round stunning face and short blonde hair that reached her collarbones. She wore a white blouse, designed with red flowers and tucked in her black trousers. Devon had been awake for god knows how long, when during this time, Ryan would be dragging his feet to bed. 

Swaying on her feet, Devon beamed, “you’re not doing anything wrong. Kelsey told me about you. I will be working with you… after all, anything you say has to get through me first.” 

If anything, she was just as influential as anybody he was working with. “Of course…” Ryan curled his hand with the bed sheet and scooted deeper in the bed. 

Getting the hint, Devon gawked at him and let out an _oh!_ before placing her binder on the desk in front of him. “I’ll leave you to it. Kelsey’s in the lobby, she’s wearing…” she gestured to her eyes, then to her shoulders. “A really, really nice coat. You’ll know who it is.”

A really, really nice coat was an understatement because twenty-nine minutes later, Ryan stepped out of the elevator to see Kelsey sitting on the lobby’s couches. Her legs crossed, swallowed by a fleecy coat and wore sunglasses inside of the hotel. Could it have been that bright outside?

Checking if so, Ryan jogged towards her, his backpack bounced with him. “The sun had to have risen a few minutes ago. The sunglasses?”

Kelsey smiled, straightened up on her seat and fiddled with her glasses, “I’m a public figure, Bergara. Can’t be seen in the public. We’ll be bombarded by the media before you could think about it.”

But… Ryan turned his head to survey the lobby. Nobody… was there. Other than the receptionist on the front desk and the concierge outside, it was merely Ryan and Kelsey, who wore an eye-catching coat in the first place. He didn't question it however, and handed over his documents to Kelsey when asked. 

She looked through them there, identically as he had done last night and in the elevator minutes prior. He stood there as she read, flipping through papers typed by Devon or another member of her team. Feeling awkward, he raised his arm to stretch the back of his neck and smiled as a greeting to anybody who passed by.

He observed Kelsey, who pursed her lips at the comment that Devon left to reassure Ryan about Madej. It peaked his interest when her eyebrows drew together and closed the package. He wasn’t fond of irritating the woman who he considered as one of his bosses in the hotel he was staying at, but he thought back to Steven’s _she must like you_ comment and found the courage to ask: “Shane Madej. He’s not as bad as they talk about him right?”

Kelsey lifted an eyebrow, her sunglasses covered the expression in her eyes but she tilted her head. “I’m sure you know about him more than I do.”

Ryan gaped, “I—I don’t. Only… only what I have read and watched on TV…” he pondered, thinking about those late nights of reading the newspaper with the television in the background, stuttering from poor connection. 

Kelsey stood up when he thought about it, starting to walk from the lounge to the entrance of the hotel. Waving for Ryan to follow her, she gave him the documents as she reached for her purse. “Devon _tried_ to give him lessons on social media etiquette. He never listened. I can imagine what he’s like to the target audience.”

Walking behind Kelsey, Ryan shrugged, “there’s not a lot to imagine. He’s stoic on TV, but those articles like to exaggerate his every move,” he paused, outside of the hotel were two guards, both who nodded at Kelsey and opened the passenger and driver’s door of a shiny, white Cadillac parked under the arch of the entrance. Ryan stood in disbelief as he offered his gratitude and settled inside of the car, “I’d like to think Shane Madej is a relaxed person.”

Closing the door to her car, Kelsey guffawed and turned her head towards Ryan. “Relaxed on the outside, god knows what he thinks about on the regular. Probably how to catch a serial killer.”

“If… I’m here to prove to the audience that the killer is a demon,” Ryan began, meeting her gaze and smiled, “then we should refer to _it_ as one. If Shane is thinking about _how_ to catch a human, he’s probably wasting his time.”

“Ah!” Kelsey jumped in her seat, jerking her body to the side and opened her mouth in surprise. The corners of her mouth curved up and she shook her head, adjusting herself in the driver’s seat. “He’s going to like you. Hah, considering we have totally different opinions about this case, I like you more than him.” 

She shook her head again, then reached for her seatbelt, “and here I believed that women were most fond of him. It’s been paranormal investigators all along.”

“Wh—wh—what? No, no, no,” Ryan laughed warily, his mouth felt dry all of a sudden but he waved his hands in front of him to dismiss her assumption, “it’s not like that! I don’t—”

“Even as partners, I thought that you’d have fights with him, you’ll probably get along—put your seatbelt on, Bergara. This is going to be hell of a good ride.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” Ryan grudgingly reached for his seatbelt as Kelsey sped up out of the hotel’s entrance, throwing him off his balance and into the glove compartment. 

Kelsey didn't exaggerate about the drive to the office. As the peaceful, tranquil, and mellow five minute drive Ryan expected last night turned into a traffic-ridden, thirty minute commute (with a coffee run in-between,) Kelsey shrieking, one. The second he had arrived at a parking lot behind the station, he opened the passenger door and tripped to the pavement with his coffee in one hand and the other holding his documents.

His hair disheveled, he exhaled sharply as Kelsey patted his back, “we’re here! Hurry and stand, reporters are not rare occurrences during this time. We’re trying to hide you from them, not expose you to them.”

Ryan thought that was a good idea. The media will know about him sooner or later, or as much as he wants to be published to the audience catching up with the case. He recalled seventy-two percent of them believe that villainy was involved in the case. He found himself at a stand-still if it were true, as he wasn’t as knowledgeable about dark magic, Curly’s grandmother was.

(When Ryan first met Curly, his grandmother sat them both down and asked them if this path—the path of helping people and shadowing exorcisms—was what they both wanted. 

For hours, she taught them about the dangerous side of it all. Ryan went home unsettled, he’ll never forget what she said to him.)

Feeling off, Ryan stood up and dusted himself off. Closing the passenger door of Kelsey’s car, he looked back to the street and the department. Chicago and L.A had distinct similarities, a downtown with fluorescent lights and pedestrians walking around the sidewalks to where they needed to go. Only, Chicago was windier, colder, and a lot less hidden than the neighborhood Ryan worked in. 

He took the bus to his father’s dentist office, to his apartment, and to his parent’s house. Here, he stood beside a Cadillac that was not his, parked on the pay-by-hour parking lot of downtown. Secluded from shops in the distance, the entrance had a gate that officers could be granted access to. Yet, the parked cars all around the station’s parking lot made it easy for anyone to jump the fence and hide between the cars to take pictures. 

Nervous, Ryan took a sip of his coffee and strutted to Kelsey’s side. Deep in thought, she had busied herself to hand over her key card to the man at the front. Not much of an expression on him either, nothing but a nod to Kelsey and a glance towards Ryan before he opened the tinted glass doors. 

He’s been here before; Zack, the journalist (who is not dead, according to Kelsey,) he was with during his trip to the department weeks prior had been the one with access to the station in the first place. As his plus one, Ryan had to show his ID to anybody that they came across to. 

The press conference was brief though, and Ryan had limited time to take in his surroundings. Now, he saw brick walls, unsullied and without a sign of decay. A hibiscus plant stood by the side of reception, chairs placed diagonally and tables with folders, brochures and magazines. There was a sign that he took account to, pointing from right, left, and forward. 

For the ballroom, where the press conferences are held, selected, registered reporters are escorted only to the right. To the left, was where Ryan would spend the next nine hours in. 

And god. What a thrill was it to see the office. 

They had computers, printers, fax machines, literally _anything_ advertised at two in the morning in those paid programming channels. Plain, wooden desks and people rushing from areas away from the main offices. There were men and women on phones, holding them on the crook of their shoulders, talking profusely.

Even as Ryan Bergara walked in with the woman of the hour, they did not cease their movements. 

“Well,” Kelsey rested her arms on both hips, “thoughts?”

Ryan’s lashes fluttered, “I don’t have one, right now. Ask me after I meet Shane Madej.”

“You’re meeting him,” a voice resonated behind Ryan, and he whirled around to… see a clothed chest. “Now.”

Oh right. The man was a giant. Ryan lifted his head, took a step back, and tried to register what his eyes were looking at. He couldn’t help it, but he was dumbfounded when he looked at him. Nothing about him on television could compare to the _real_ man himself. And the gears in Ryan’s mind halted their course.

Shane Madej was a man of indifference. As he looked down at Ryan, his eyes wavered to see if there was anything wrong with him. Still, Ryan found himself absolutely possessed in the presence of this man—he could be giving him the _eye_ and he’ll remain frozen on the spot. (Ryan mentally remembered that he carried a small vial of sage oil, courtesy of Curly.)

“You just got here?” Kelsey queried jauntily, used to seeing Shane Madej every day and fixated at her wrist watch, “you’re late.”

“Yeah,” Shane replied, turning his gaze away from Ryan to her, “I heard there was a crazy woman driving like a maniac, had to sit through traffic for ten minutes because of her.”

“Had to get him here quick,” Kelsey defended herself, “you never know who is watching. Anyway, Shane, meet Ryan Bergara,” she introduced him, holding his arms with her arms and shook him a bit. “The _best_ paranormal investigator in Los Angeles.”

Shane loomed closer, not a hint of bewilderment seen, “should we interrogate him?”

“At least say hello,” Kelsey demanded, in the distance, Ryan heard a phone ring noisily. He had been in a trance for the last couple of minutes since he’s walked in, and even then, he’s felt like he wasn’t completely there to begin with. Shane opened his mouth to respond to her when someone yelled _Darragh, it’s for you_ in their direction.

Kelsey’s head turned to the man who called for her, “I’ve got to run. Introduce yourself, Madej. Take him to the conference room, wouldn’t you?”

_No, no, no, don’t leave he’s_ —

“Ryan Bergara, right?” 

Ryan stuttered, nodding. “Y—yes. I’m Ryan Bergara.”

“I guess you know who I am?” Shane inquired, his head lowered to Ryan’s side. He was tall, as tall as Steven Lim. Thin by appearance, the opposite of Kelsey’s formal appearance. Acting as if it was a casual day at the office, Shane Madej had a red checkered shirt over a gray one, unwrinkled jeans and a black jacket over his shoulders, his light brown hair strewed in two different directions and a stubble was growing on his jaw. 

“Yes,” Ryan nodded again, “I do. I’ve—I’ve seen you on television and in person, far…” Ryan gesticulated with a wave of his hand, “far away. I was hiding behind the journalist, I couldn’t exactly _see_ you but—”

Surprisingly, Shane let out a chuckle, his eyes crinkled as if he was amused by Ryan’s trepidation. “That’s funny. I’ll still introduce myself. I’m Shane Madej, lead investigator in the Roseberry and Parker case. Nice to meet you, Ryan Bergara.”

As shocked as Ryan was, he accepted the hand Shane extended for him. 

“Just to clarify, before we go our own ways,” Shane pulled back his hand, “I don’t work here. I guess you and I have something in common, we like to do freelance work. Come on,” Shane jerked his chin towards the direction Kelsey had disappeared to. 

After their introductions, Shane led Ryan down a corridor and away from the erratic lobby. The corridor was narrow, but Shane walked slowly. Whether it was on purpose or not, Ryan didn't know.

“You read it?”

Ryan pulled his gaze away from another hibiscus at the end of the hallway to Shane, “what?”

“That,” Shane stuck his hand out of his pant’s pocket, pointed at the documents under Ryan’s arm. “You read it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan tore it out of his underarm and held it up, flipping through its contents loosely. “I know that it's simplified, summarized and downgraded to a full five pages. Don’t worry, I know a lot of the details about this case.”

“Do you know about the witchcraft theory?”

Pausing, Ryan stood his ground and lifted his head up at his brash partner. Shane’s expression did not change, his features impassive as he asked. It seemed that he wasn't… angry or upset. Maybe interested. So, Ryan answered truthfully, “sort of? I know what the media covers and what the community is concerned with. There’s a lot of misinformation on both ends but I try to stray from public opinion. I work with a brujo after all.”

“ _Brujo_?” Shane’s forehead puckered, “what type of occupation is that?”

“Brujeria,” Ryan replied, almost as if the answer was obvious. “I don’t know a lot, but there are different ways to practice witchcraft. My coworker’s grandmother is superstitious, she taught her grandchildren brujeria when they lived in El Salvador."

“And you?” Shane persisted, he turned to face Ryan and walked at a slower pace now, almost at a full-stop. Despite his team waiting for the both of them, Shane had zero consideration for making them _wait_. “Are you one too?”

“No, I'm not a practitioner. I am a paranormal investigator. I witness and investigate unsolved, unexplained mysteries,” Ryan informed, catching his gaze with a mischievous glint of his eyes, “like you.”

There, Shane’s eyes narrowed, bobbed his head as he thought about it. Nothing in his persona seemed to expel any negative aura, but Ryan couldn’t figure out what he was thinking as he talked with Ryan. For the third time that morning, Ryan wished for Curly’s input and presence. 

Having no time to think about it, Shane made an abrupt turn in the corridor, almost hurtling into Ryan. Surprised, Ryan hopped a step backwards as Shane twisted the knob to a room they stood in front of. Patiently, Shane turned back to Ryan and cocked his head towards the room. 

As Shane walked inside, Ryan trailing behind, he got a glimpse of what he’s been assigned for. The room was bleak, achromatic walls and luminous lights hung from the rafters; a dry erase board stood on the corner of the room, drawn with red and blue markers, arrows curved to messy handwriting. Behind it, a beige bulletin board stocked with photographs and newspaper clippings of recent developments in the Roseberry case.

No doubt about it, that was probably Devon’s handiwork. Speaking of, Devon was the first person who stood up for him once he walked into the room. 

The meeting room—or a room with a circular wooden table and black chairs—was nothing short of elegance. Of course, it had to be a room where a lot of _unsolved murder talk_ and _how do we find this cold-hearted killer_ questions reflected through the walls. Nobody could hear them outside. That… made Ryan nervous.

“Good morning, Bergara,” Devon smiled, cheeks flushed as she walked from the table and to him. Extending her hand, she reached for the document he carried, “hope you had a decent morning.”

“Who drove him here?” Another voice, far from what Ryan recognized spoke, “couldn’t be Madej.”

“Nope,” _Madej_ replied, having left Ryan’s side to sit on one of the chairs in the room. “Kelsey did.”

The woman who Ryan couldn’t see whistled, “man. You should have given him a ride, Devon. At least save him the trouble.”

“Kelsey insisted,” Devon retorted, her eyes glued to her report and strut to the bulletin board, “introduce yourself to him. Shane, we’re waiting on Lim and Yang. We're discussing how we’ll deal with the press and the case itself with them. Don’t slack off, please sit upright.”

Different from the woman he’s met before, Devon set up instructions for two coworkers in front of Ryan in the span of thirty seconds. They listened, and as the woman about to introduce herself stood, Devon turned back to Ryan, “Kelsey will not be joining us, she was dispatched earlier and will be replaced by Steven Lim. He'll take her place during tomorrow afternoon’s meeting, too. Hopefully you’ll be joining us.”

“He will,” a hand was placed on Devon’s arm and the woman who had been talking appeared before Ryan. She was around his age, with her hair up in a ponytail, “I am Katie LeBlanc, I am the forensics specialist. It’s nice to meet you, you’re quite the popular man around this office. Gossiping about you with the interns has become a fad around here.”

“Really?” Ryan scrunched up his face, “good gossip I hope.”

Katie offered a radiant smile, “one can hope. Sit, sit, are you hungry? We could get you something.”

Ryan declined, taking careful steps into the room, and standing stiffly by the wooden table. There was a question in the back of his mind that bothered him, but instead of actually _asking_ , he sat in the first chair he touched, far away from Shane Madej.

It didn't go unnoticed by said man. A corner of Shane’s mouth quirked up and he rested his back to the crease of his chair, “I don’t bite Bergara, we’ll only talk about keeping your reputation, yourself and your family safe.”

“That’s okay,” Ryan reassured, patting the side of his chair, “I like this chair.”

What is wrong with him? Seriously—

A laugh was heard in the conference room, Katie found Ryan funny enough to _actually_ laugh at his awkwardness. Part of his anxiety faded away once Devon found it in herself to sit next to him, “first of all, it’s a pleasure to have you in our team. Despite the controversy around this case,” Devon paused, “it's refreshing to have another investigator to help us out.”

“Yet, it’s important that you, and all of us,” Devon peered at her team members, “are safe. Social media has a role in sabotaging careers and disputing rumors around cases. That’s where you and I come in, we’ll be working together to keep you away from the pressure of the press.”

“Wouldn’t that be unavoidable?” Ryan asked, “if I was introduced as Shane Madej’s new partner, wouldn’t people question my credentials as a partner? Especially a homicidal case?”

“They won’t,” Shane spoke up, “if I had told them that I agreed to invite you in as my new partner, nobody would bat an eye towards you. But, that’s not the issue at play here,” Shane crossed his arms, “you agreed to Kelsey’s terms in L.A because your coworker, your father, mother, and younger brother will be protected by field officers.”

“That’s true.”

“It’s active since you left Los Angeles,” Devon confirmed, “your family and your coworker are safe. Nobody knows who they are, if the public searched you up somehow, they’ll only discover _you_. You have a right to publicize yourself or keep it anonymous, although our higher-ups's terms have to be considered. You must accept to investigate this case from a different point of view.”

Ryan’s expression dulled, “find out if the killer is a paranormal entity.”

“Find _evidence_ ,” Devon corrected, “the Roseberry sisters were rumored to have been practicing dark magic with a third party. Susan Parker is connected to the sisters. With your help, we may be able to consider that it’s a case that we can not resolve. If the killer isn’t human, we can’t exactly convict them.”

Ryan's eyes went round, and he gulped. Find evidence… find evidence of something that was considered unethical and difficult to find _proof_ of without someone’s critical eyes towards his direction. Either way, Ryan nodded, watched as Devon nodded back to him and assembled the contracts Ryan would sign in order.

The entire time he’s reading through them, he’s felt eyes on him. Looking up once was a mistake, the demeanor of his new partner had changed, Shane was glaring at him through the darkness of the conference room. He had yet to figure out Shane's intentions towards him, but his behavior hissed disinterest in him other than as business partners. Ryan tried to swallow down his irritation, it ended as rapidly as it began, and Shane retreated his eyes away from him. 

At first, Ryan wasn’t going to comment, instead, looked down at the contract and continued reading. 

Just… it was done for him. 

“Anything to add Madej?” Katie prompted, swirled around the chair she sat in, elbows spread in the armrests. From where Ryan sat, he could see Katie’s leg jiggle consistently as Shane looked at her, eyes downcast, “I doubt that you’re—”

“Sorry we’re late! Kelsey was right, reporters out in front today—oh, he’s already here. Look, look Eugene,” bouncing back and forth from the taut atmosphere of the conference room to the entrance, Ryan found the strength to stand and introduce himself to both Steven Lim and his new boss, Eugene Yang.

He’s seen Eugene Yang a total of two times, one of which was in person beside Zack during his first press conference in Chicago. The second was on the television, a lot younger than he is now, though, his features and age do not correlate.

Eugene offered his apologies and casually greeted both Ryan and the group before him. “If we’re all here, we can get started. Why are you all sitting in the dark?” Flicking the lights of the conference room changed the ambience instantly, Ryan could _see_ what had been written about the case on the dry erase board.

“The lights weren’t working,” Katie replied, “they flickered when Devon and I first came in, didn't want it to be a distraction.”

“It’s been like that for a while,” Steven chimed in, looking at the table and stuck out a chair to sit in. Beside Kate, Steven accommodated himself effortlessly, “Andrew said that he’ll hire an electrician to fix it. _Two_ days ago,” inclined his head towards Ryan, Steven continued, “Andrew Ilnyckj is my partner, he’s working on a court case for today. He said ‘welcome’ on his behalf.”

“Tell him I said _thank you_ ,” Ryan addressed. There was little about Andrew Ilnyckj from Ryan’s point of view. As a lawyer, especially one out in the open, Andrew had clients to tend to and brought back information for Steven to evaluate. It was rare to see him working on a homicidal case unless there _had_ to be extra hands.

With little time to waste now that everyone in Ryan’s new team was here, Eugene motioned him to sit back next to Devon as he took the stand gracefully. Before starting, Ryan passed on the contracts (that he read and signed appropriately) back to Devon and was asked if he was one-hundred percent sure he wanted to be involved in the case.

Despite the trip, and the hotel room he’s gotten for _free_ , Ryan couldn’t exactly deny that he was thrilled to work on a case that could potentially obtain any evidence of the paranormal. He had no reason to refuse, with his family and Curly safe.

“Alright,” Eugene picked up two manila folders from the table, they sat there before Ryan walked in, closer to Shane’s side than his own. He held the two of them on opposite hands, showing them off to Ryan before he lifted the one in his right, “this is a list of witnesses, and the other is a list of suspects. Around one-hundred fifty suspects in the area of Susan Parker’s home and a couple of witnesses to interview.”

Ryan sat unobtrusively when Eugene tossed the folders towards Devon and Katie. “LeBlanc surveys the crime scene with her team, Joralmon interrogates suspects with Darragh. Takes half a day to go through both lists, on the regular. Unless anybody confesses. Lim holds press conferences, reads proof reports from the team, and answers any questions from the media.”

“Any questions that go through me,” Devon added, she brightened, “will be answered. You don’t have to answer to any journalist or reporter without any of us present.”

“You won’t be alone anyway,” Eugene turned his head towards Shane. Saying nothing, Eugene’s hands that had been resting on the table disappeared and he turned back to the dry erase board. 

As if it was obvious that Shane had his own role in homicidal cases, Eugene had minimal control as to what Shane does. He wasn’t _exactly_ his boss, but he worked with them. “What… what do you normally do?” Ryan asked Shane, loomed closer to the table and stared at Shane tugged at his jacket sleeve, “I don’t think you sit around all day.”

Awe dawned on Shane’s face and he stared at Ryan with intrigued eyes, “I’m out on the field,” he straightened out on his seat and looked back at the table, drumming his fingers on the edge, “if need be, I’m at the office taking phone calls, interrogating suspects. I’m mostly at crime scenes, I take my time to find any clue that I can.”

Ryan nodded to himself, “I—”

“As a matter of fact,” Shane interrupted, he tapped his finger on the table twice, gesticulating at Steven to pass him the document beside him. Once in his hands, he opened it, “I was thinking about revisiting the Roseberry house today. With a new partner, it's best to retrace your steps to be more… _efficient_.” 

Next to him, Devon tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and sighed, “Shane—”

"What do _you_ think?" Sliding the folder to Ryan’s side, he stopped it with his hand and looked at the contents inside. As promised, Ryan was looking specifically at the floor plan of the Roseberry house. Nowhere in the public media had covered the house itself, much less the detailed evidence found inside. 

The floor plan was labeled, red ink that pin-pointed different rooms and copied pictures of the crime scene. Majority of it was on the first floor, _nothing_ on the second. Huh, that’s interesting. Did anybody think about checking the second floor? Ryan trained his hearing to Shane’s rambling again. 

“—nobody is using the house, the Roseberry parents are demolishing it when the case has closed permanently. Ryan Bergara was not _shown_ any evidence. If he agrees, of course.”

Of _fucking_ course, Ryan was going to agree, was he kidding? Not only was it an _honor_ to see a crime scene in person, he could check the second floor himself without or with Shane’s help. He hated murder, hated the fact there was a case to work on to begin with. Still, it was surprising that he was invited to the _Roseberry_ house. The infamous house that was closed off from the public with a barbed fence, caution signs that warned anybody to _not_ try to break in.

“Shane, seriously,” Devon warned, “he might not—”

“Actually,” Ryan perked up, “I think it’s a _great_ idea. Shane, did you notice that the second floor is empty? Did anybody investigate the upstairs?”

Shane’s brows knitted, clearing up his throat before LeBlanc spoke for him: “my team searched the upstairs. They didn't find anything that could trace them back to the killer.”

“In their rooms? Nothing that led them to the killer?”

“Not in their rooms,” LeBlanc confirmed, “it is unlikely that the sisters knew the perpetrator from school or work. We believe that they were hired by Susan Parker, not to _kill_ them, but as a favor.”

Ryan pressed his lips together, there was something _missing_. In the back of his mind, checking the upstairs was an utmost priority now that he knew that there must be something they missed. He also knew Shane’s plan by taking him to the crime scene in the first place, he wasn’t stupid, Kelsey told him that it was Shane’s day off and his plan for the day was to stay at home and research further into Susan Parker’s case.

His partner would have to try harder if he wanted to get rid of him. 

“If there isn’t anything else to cover,” Ryan stood, “I think that Shane and I should get to the Roseberry house and I’ll double-check the upstairs. I’ll return with anything that I found that could link the sisters to paranormal activity. It is unlikely, but there could be something related to the message left behind by the killer.”

His team members gaped at him, jaws slacked and blinked absentmindedly as Ryan stacked the documents that Shane gave him back into the folder. He was also hungry, thinking that it's best that he’ll grab something on the way before leaving for the Roseberry house. But by the look on Shane’s face, he had his doubts.

Shane remained seated, his smile slipped from his face and his eyes bore into him. He leapt in his seat when Eugene knocked on the table by his side, “it was your idea, boss. Follow your partner.”

Shane exhaled, shoving the chair from the table and walked to Ryan’s side. “Are you sure? There’s always another day—”

“Keep him away from the press, Madej. And make sure nobody has trespassed in the house, do not forget your gloves. Bring him back before six, drop him off when you've concluded your search,” Eugene commented, “everyone else, _get to work_!” 

In a flurry of movements, the conference room lit up with activity before Ryan’s eyes; Devon stood and gave him a soft smile before she walked out first, Steven and Katie behind her trail. Leaving Eugene in the room for himself, “take my car, the rundown one. The shittier, the better. Leave from the backroom, don't use any force unless you need to, Madej. Anything to keep Ryan away from the public.”

Imitating Shane’s behavior from before, Eugene slid his car keys to Shane, who caught them mutely. Twirled them in his hands, he gave another glance at Ryan and walked out of the door. Strolling through the corridor now was different from an hour prior, Shane no longer had his confident shtick to him, rather, he idly strode away to the other side of the hallway with Ryan creeping behind.

“I’ve become your personal bodyguard,” Shane finally commented when they reached the staircase door, “I hope you can punch somebody.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ryan bent down underneath Shane’s arm when he held the door open for him, walking towards the stairs that led downstairs to _another_ door. This one labeled as an emergency exit, “I can handle anybody, I promise.”

Shane reached for his pocket, taking out his ID card and held it up towards the authentication system on the side of the door. The door _clicked_ and opened on its own, and like a gentleman (fool) Shane was, he motioned for Ryan to the outside before stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” Shane frowned, “did you bring a sweater?”

“I live in L.A,” Ryan gave him a look, “there’s about two days in a year where I need a jacket. I’ll be fine, I don’t think it’s an issue.”

Shane shrugged, not thinking further about it and swung the door open again. Chicago’s breeze hit Ryan instantly in the face, it was summertime, that irksome transition from summer to autumn, and strangely, the city was growing colder by the minute.

Hell, Los Angeles was windy, Ryan rarely had any trouble covering his arms whenever he walked on the pier or at the beach in August. 

He didn't think twice and walked out before Shane. Unlike the entrance of the office, the backdoor led them to an area secluded by an electric fence, cars parked in a uniform fashion, with minimal landscape all around. “Where’s the car?”

“I don’t know,” Shane answered, squinted at the keys that Eugene gave him, “from all hundreds of Eugene’s cars, I don’t—wait,” Shane stared towards the parking lot and swore as he shoved the car keys into his pants pocket and… surprisingly, reached for Ryan. 

At first, Ryan thought that Shane was going to attack him, instead, he was shoved to Shane’s side and covered by a jacket as swiftly as Ryan could blink. Before questioning it, Ryan yelped and held the jacket over his head, following Shane’s unvarying steps as he hid his face in the crease of his armpit. 

One of the best features as to having a 6’4 partner, he can _hide_. 

“Don’t stand,” Shane whispered, still walking with his arm around Ryan’s shoulders, “stay down and follow me. There’s two reporters standing-by warming up their cameras.”

“What about the car?” Ryan asked, tightening his hands over the collar of Shane’s jacket to hide his upper body. 

“I’m going to steal one.”

“ _What_?!” Ryan’s shriek was retaliated by a push of Shane’s arm, warning him to be _quiet_. But, Shane was going to steal a fucking car? Was he insane? What was this? Was he working with a criminal that did mediocre crimes in his free-time?

“You’re going to do _what_?”

“Steal a car,” Shane said, “don’t worry about it.”

“Steal—what is this?”

“Relax, I don't work here. _S_ _ometimes_. They can’t fire me for stealing a vehicle in their possession. Especially since Eugene knew that I wouldn’t have time to hide you and find his shitty car.”

“Stealing is wrong.”

“I don’t know where the fuck Eugene’s car is,” Shane repeated, as if it was a reasonable excuse to _steal a car_. 

Shane let go of him then, bent him down by the side of the car he was hijacking. Still covered by the jacket, he heard Shane open the passenger door and threw him on the seat, “keep your head down, do not lift it up.” Then closed the car door.

Stealing the car wasn’t a trivial thing for Shane Madej, and in less than three minutes, Shane had driven away from the station and Ryan was allowed to lift his head. 

Breathing out his jitters, he yanked Shane’s jacket from his head and blinked to adjust his eyes to the brightness of Chicago’s sunny skies. He was speechless, watching as Shane drove the car through Interstate-90 to the suburbs, folding the brown jacket in his lap.

Once Shane drove through a vacant neighborhood, Ryan’s eyes took in the sight of his partner driving, relaxed in the driver’s seat with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the window. He hadn’t noticed before, but because he was as tall as he was, Shane had to maneuver in the compacted area of the car he stole. Speaking of, was a really, _really_ tore down station wagon. 

But hey, when you need to hide your partner with your jacket from reporters meters away, did you have a choice anyway? 

Even if he was ordered to, Shane covered him _with_ his own jacket and away from the reporters. It was a bit of a surprise to Ryan that he would bother, so he snuck a glance at Shane and rubbed his hands together. “Thank you. For covering me.”

Shane leered for a moment and turned back to the road, “you’re welcome. You might be the first to thank me for doing the bare minimum. If you ended up on the headline tomorrow, I’ll have my ass handed to me.”

“Still, thank you,” Ryan reassured again. He felt the station wagon protest as Shane parked, but Ryan offered the jacket back to Shane.

Without looking, Shane said: “keep it. You’ll be cold inside of the house, I’m used to it at this point. You L.A folks don’t have _any_ idea how cold an abandoned house can get.”

“I have an idea, Los Angeles _gets_ cold too.”

“Your sixty degree muscles are going to love—fucking hell, _hide_ cover yourself with the jacket!” Without question, Ryan bent down towards the glove compartment (ignored the stinging pain from hitting himself on said glove compartment,) and threw Shane’s jacket over himself.

“What’s out there?”

“People.”

“Are they allowed to be there?

“No, listen, if all fails, tell them that you’re a journalist.”

“And what else will you say? Allowing a journalist into a secluded crime scene where he can—what? Take notes? Have a grand time?”

“Is it their business if you are?” Shane ended, and actually, was _right_. After a few minutes with Ryan hiding his identity, he complained about a cramp in the back of his neck and waited for Shane to practically fight with two individuals to get them to _leave_. 

Daydreaming on the spot had Ryan swear in surprise when Shane tossed his jacket off Ryan, seeing him bent down on the passenger seat with nobody around them. “Are they gone?” Ryan muttered, trying his best to peek outside of the car.

“Yes, they’re gone. Uh, you dropped—” Shane pointed at the grimy mat inside of the station wagon, there where Ryan had been hiding, was the bag of Limpia he brought with him. “What is that?”

_Fuck_. Curly must have felt that from the other side of the country. Probably cursing him as they spoke. Aside from his best friend lecturing him, Shane stared at him as if he was smuggling something he wasn’t supposed to. Picking up the bag of Limpia, he stuttered, “no—nothing. A good luck charm. Are we here? Can we go inside?”

Shane sized him up, but he didn't seem to care, “yeah, keep your face hidden.”

Shane let him get out of the station wagon, albeit curtly. Nearly tossing the jacket over Ryan’s head as soon as he felt cold air pierce his skin, Shane led them to what Ryan suspected as the sidewalk of the Roseberry’s neighborhood. To follow regulations, Shane parked a house or two away from it, leaving them to walk to the place without drawing attention to themselves.

And yet, here Ryan was, with Shane Madej’s jacket over his head and Shane Madej _himself_ walking beside him like nothing was wrong? Ryan wouldn’t blame himself if a neighbor was looking in and closed their drapes.

“Seriously, they’ll be suspicious of you sending a supposed friend to the Roseberry house,” Ryan resumed under Shane’s jacket, he lifted the right side slightly only to have Shane drag it back down and shove a pair of blue gloves towards the inner pocket of his jacket.

“They were bystanders. I couldn’t exactly say anything else when they asked about you.”

“They saw me?” Ryan lifted the jacket again, to which Shane pulled it back down. “They _saw_ me?”

“A feature or two. _A journalist_ is all I could think to say, taking my boyfriend or a family member to a crime scene wouldn’t suit well with them, wouldn’t it?"

“Funny,” Ryan retorted under the jacket, “no chance buddy, it’s against paranormal policy to date a skeptic.”

“Aren’t you glad I said journalist then?” Even if Ryan couldn’t see him, Shane had a grin on his face, a similar one that he had given Ryan before the meeting this morning. He bet. He didn't know.

Also, he wasn’t thinking about _that_ , anyway. Can’t date a skeptic.

Shane maintained his silence, and from Ryan’s point of view of his shoes, he had stopped. Unsure if he was allowed to take the jacket off yet, he listened in until he heard the squeak of a gate opening. He watched as the gate downward opened and Shane walked in, taking his shoulder and dragging him inside. 

That’s when Ryan knew, he was in the Roseberry’s yard. It was eerie, walking through the delicate artificial stones of the front yard. The grass, once mowed and _neat_ now is a vineyard of a fiasco of weeds and insects. To see the effects of what happened to a family’s home in a span of weeks was devastating and all Ryan could do was stare at it from where he _could_.

“There’s a step,” Shane announced to him, went past him to the Roseberry’s porch. From what Ryan could remember, and what was _shown_ on television, the Roseberry’s house was grandiose, a two story and a scenic vintage porch. Made of what Ryan could believe as stone and marble, he stepped on the steep stairs carefully until he reached the _welcome_ mat in front of the door. 

Again, how he wished Curly was here.

Nothing about the yard or the porch itself emitted evil, dark magic aura. And the unsettling feeling Ryan felt was purely from the fact that two innocent people had died there, brutally. Without a second thought, Shane took it upon himself to use the keys of the house, and open the door wide open. 

Ryan heard it slam against the wall and the _stench_ of bleach and dust infiltrated Ryan’s nostrils. Walking in was nothing but delight, but once that front door had been closed shut, Ryan’s eyes finally got to _see_ and it was just him and Shane inside. 

Blinking, Ryan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and to Shane’s void-less form. Shane turned his head back and forth, whirled around as if he were looking for the light switch to the entrance, at that point, Ryan didn't know if he wanted to see.

It was too late, by the time Shane turned the lights on, Ryan had a clear view of the living room. 

There was no blood, there was no corpse. No sign of forced entry or a disarray of furniture that signaled a fight against the sisters and their killer. Almost as if the crime hadn’t been committed, except by the work the forensic team left behind. He sighed, his foot stuck between the plastic covering the rest of the house, and he turned to watch as Shane tugged on his gloves.

Following his partner, Ryan walked vigilantly. He was careful with his steps, nearing the archway of the living room. On the plastic were two outlines of yellow tape, two bodies that had been found and even though the blood had been washed off, it was marked with a minuscule yellow sign. There were over thirty of them in the room alone. 

Forcing to draw his eyes away, he jerked his head to the direction of his partner. Shane leaning on the archway of the living room, gloved hands free and looking at the outlines, too. “Where’s the kitchen?”

Shane motioned his chin behind him, did not bother to look at Ryan at all. 

If the living room was ominous, the kitchen was a _disaster_. The pictures Ryan had memorized in his brain recirculated and he _felt_ it here more so than the living room. The same emotion he felt observing exorcisms from feet away, watching as the victim's bones contorted and healed in seconds, in their own _homes_ because a demon was possessing them.

The exact feeling he felt when Curly came home from helping out a family or two, frowning gravely and sitting on their dining table to say: I couldn’t help them, we can only pray for them.

What he felt then, he felt here. Fear.

The kitchen was scrubbed clean, nothing of it seemed out of place to begin with. And like Shane Madej’s testimony, he walked inside and found nothing unusual at first. A drawer was the clue that drew his attention the most, a simple mistake by the killer who was trying to rush out of there; Shane encountered the stench of blood before he _saw_ it.

Exhaling deeply, Ryan turned around to the kitchen wall. No longer stained with blood, another outline in black tape spelled out: “I'm the devil and I will kill again.”

“What do you think?”

Ryan, from his position in front of the wall, bent down to see the now empty bucket, in the same location it was found, filled with what Shane had suspected as animal blood, “I don’t know. Little can be said about demons who can manifest themselves. Especially those who killed two people and leave a message on their kitchen wall.” 

Shane hummed, “a human could.”

“Yeah,” Ryan replied dryly, grabbing the gloves Shane handed to him, effortlessly putting them on, “I’m going to check upstairs, which are…?”

“Mary Roseberry’s room is to the right,” Shane confirmed, “her sister’s to the left.”

“Weren’t they fraternal twins?” Ryan asked, walking out of the kitchen and to the foyer. At the foot of the stairs was a desk, a framed photograph of two older women with the sisters. One of them woman looked to be Susan Parker, holding Mrs. Roseberry’s shoulders in an embrace.

“Yes.”

Ryan observed the photograph, "why did they have separate rooms?”

“When you’re wealthy, Bergara,” Shane spread out his arms, “you can have anything.”

_I suppose he’s right._

The stairs creaked, as all stereotypical haunted locations Ryan’s been to has done. He took his time walking up, making sure that he didn't accidentally trip on a step and fall to his own death. He stood in the hallway of the sister’s rooms and their shared bathroom, seeing as their bathroom _was_ checked thoroughly and did not have anything other than the sister’s hygiene products.

Since the murders, the surviving Roseberry parents had returned to the house after it was suitable to. In an interview he read, their mother had visited their rooms and did what a mother would do. She washed their sheets, swept the floor and did her best to stray away from her daughter's things. 

Mary’s room was everything Ryan expected from a teenager, pink-colored walls covered in bulletin boards covered with photographs and awards from school. White furniture placed around the room, her bed made with many of her pillows assembled with her stuffed animals. Mary’s work uniform folded at the foot of the bed, her shoes underneath. Almost as if her mother had set it up as it was a normal morning for her daughter.

Ryan couldn’t imagine the devastation that her mother felt now. 

As a paranormal investigator, he liked to give out the option of closure for ghosts and spirits who were lost in the afterlife or roaming around Earth. Although rare, Ryan tried his best to consider it a possibility and wanted to give them a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen to them. 

He hated doing it because respect was his priority every time. But, he had to try. 

He marginally heard Shane walk behind him until he slipped the strap of his backpack off his shoulder, “what are you thinking about?”

“I’m going to do something crazy,” Ryan revealed, digging through his backpack to take out a device that he carried. It wasn’t like the original device that he bought from another paranormal investigator, but it was identical. Taking only a few minutes of recordings at a time, Ryan looked at the instrument and then back to Shane with apologetic eyes.

“I’m going to do a recording session.”

Shane’s eyebrows rose, “a—what?”

“This device takes frequencies at rapid speeds, it can help spirits to communicate with us. I’m going to turn this on and it will be loud,” Ryan warned, “I suggest waiting in the hall.”

“You’re going to talk to ghosts,” Shane speculated, crossing his arms around his chest, “right now. Right here.”

“If there’s any, I want to see if Mary or… what’s her sister’s name, _Isabelle_ are here,” Ryan admitted.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Shane mumbled to himself, watching as Ryan pressed buttons on his device, “you had that with you all day— _oh_ _okay_ , I’ll be out in the hall, _what is that noise_?”

The device expelled the static Ryan prepared himself for as Shane walked out of the room promptly after hearing it. The last time he’s done this was at the shop, the lady who came in who believed a ghost was following her and her family, thinking that it was a malevolent ghost turned out to be her deceased father.

“Hello?” He spoke in Mary’s room, static filled his eardrums as he introduced himself to Mary, or her sister. Whoever was present. Usually, he’ll be silent and let whoever it was to speak, _actually_ speak. So, he kept his silence to himself and offered his condolences to them, offering them to lean on him or use his energy to speak with him if need be. 

(He really, _really_ , hoped he didn't throw himself on a platter for a demon.)

He roamed around Mary’s room, static as his only friend as he looked over Mary’s photos, some that she had taken of herself and her friends. Awards ranging from kindergarten to now; she was smart, a nice kid that had a future taken from her—

“ _D_ —”

Startled, Ryan looked down at the device, “Sorry? Who is it? Can you repeat that?”

Listening in for a second or two, given static as his answer, Ryan whirled around and past Mary’s desk. Her things had been organized, her makeup on one side and her jewelry box on another, wide open for easy access. A giant circular mirror beside Mary’s desk— 

“ _Back_.”

Back? 

“Back? Back where?” Ryan walked backwards, now in front of the mirror again, looking at the jewelry box. He heard nothing, and he frowned as he watched the tape run out from his spirit box. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a better device with me right now, if you’re still here. I’ll be back to talk to you.”

Nothing. The device died after he had talked and he sighed to himself. Equipment like these had their own limit to them, and buying film for them is quite the task. But _a word._ That’s progress!

Mentally noted to show Shane later, Ryan bent down and looked at the desk. There was a chair missing, but with most younger students, they often worked on their bed. On top of the makeup and jewelry sprawled on the table, Ryan took the textbook and flipped through it, doing the same for her unfinished homework. 

As a student, Mary kept her books and assignments half-completed, and despite the summer break, she hadn't tossed away her homework from earlier this year. She left them in the desk before him, possibly worked on a summer project. He looked at the surface of the white desk, seeing nothing but a diary entry from Mary. He skimmed through it and read the date of the night before her murder. It didn't strike him as peculiar, he wrote his thoughts when he had nightmares in the night. 

Sighing he fiddled with the makeup stand and moved it to the side, revealing… a frame. A silver frame was hidden behind the mess of makeup Mary had, didn't think about it, Ryan lifted it up to see the picture in it.

Only to find that there wasn’t any.

That was strange. Sometimes things go unnoticed by the owner, it couldn’t have been an unusual occurrence. He made sure to place it in sight this time. As he did so, the desk wobbled and so did the jewelry box. A hung necklace fell next to the empty frame, the locket flew opened and shown in front of Ryan from the desk. 

It was elegant, gold in color and—it felt… it felt weird. So weird.

Looking at it was entrancing at best and dread filled Ryan’s body before he knew it. Face blanched, Ryan turned from Mary’s desk and ran out the bedroom door, ignoring Shane’s uninterested gaze and walked into Isabelle’s room.

There, it was the _total_ opposite from before. Apart from her sister’s vibrant, flowery self, Isabelle’s room was navy in color, rock band posters all over her walls with portraits of her family or the family’s childhood dog. Wasting no time, Ryan scrambled to Isabelle’s desk, not as messy as her sister’s just lacking the jewelry box.

Wait. No, that didn't make sense. 

Where else could it be?

He hoped that Mrs. Roseberry didn't find it before him. He looked all over Isabelle’s room, nothing unaccustomed from an adolescent's room, the closet was messier, a lot of her clothes dug out and folded on boxes on the floor. If it got to it, Ryan would have to search pockets soon. 

Crossing to the dresser, he gasped when he heard: “what is _going_ on with you?”

Haven’t bothered to give Shane an answer, Ryan gawked at the top of Isabelle’s dresser. There, a similar necklace laid, one that could be mistaken as Mary’s. Beside it, a frame equally as empty. There was no doubt about it, the sisters were given these things, these…

Ryan felt Shane’s tall form loom closer, throwing his jacket over Ryan’s shoulders. “Heard a couple journalists outside, in case you need it. What did you find?”

“Cursed objects,” Ryan breathed out, “two of them. Necklaces with empty lockets in Mary’s room, the same in Isabelle’s.”

“ _Ryan_ ,” Shane drawled out, “that could mean _so_ many other things.”

“No, no,” Ryan denied promptly, eyes squinted at the pendant, “they must have been used in a ritual. The sisters have two cursed objects in their possession. This was a gift for them, they wouldn’t willingly curse themselves.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Would _you_?” Ryan tapped Isabelle’s dresser, “look, a necklace beside a frame in both rooms, neither of them have a picture in them. The person who had cursed them probably has them to match something inside the pendant. Mary’s diary was next to her jewelry box, she was writing the night before her murder, she had insomnia, she was having nightmares.”

“Where are you going with this, Bergara?” Shane cocked his head, his forehead creased as Ryan mentally pulled his hair out in both agitation and terror that he actually _found_ something.

“To curse someone, you need… like hair or… or a photo to connect the hex to them,” Ryan recalled what Curly’s grandmother had told him, “symptoms of _being_ hexed involve nightmares, headaches, anything physically hurting you. If what Mary was writing was true and from her, she could be having these symptoms before her sister as she was actually wearing it.”

Pointing to Isabelle’s necklace, “her sister was not.”

“How do you know that?”

“The picture downstairs,” Ryan proceeded, “Mary was wearing the same necklace, Isabelle was not.”

Shane trailed his eyes to the object, clearing his throat and lifted his hands, “suppose this is real—suppose that it is. We’ll have to take both of them—”

“ _Wait_!” Ryan grabbed Shane’s forearm, enclosed his fingers around Shane’s wrist and pulled him away. They locked eyes for a split second, Ryan gaped as he removed his fingers from Shane’s wrist and apologized. With Shane’s eyes on him, he gave him a glare but kept his arms around his sides.

“It’s cursed,” Ryan stated the obvious, “dark magic—”

“You’re serious?” Shane told him, “you’re one-hundred—you came in here, turned on a static box for thirty minutes. And now I’m in the presence of _two_ cursed objects? And you’re being serious?”

Surprised, Ryan bobbed his head slowly. It did… sound atrocious out loud from a second source, especially from a person who saw the murdered victims and now had to think that the killer wasn’t fucking _human_ in the first place. Ryan understood it, but Shane hasn’t lost his composure since they got here.

Actually, he was away from Ryan _since_ they got here.

Meeting Shane’s eyes, Ryan was taken aback at his furrowed eyebrows, widened eyes filled with disbelief. And without another word, Shane leant away from the dresser, taking his jacket from Ryan’s shoulder and walked out of Isabelle’s room. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy September guys! I've returned to bring you another long chapter!!!! Hope I did not wait too long orz, uni has been breaking my back. Enjoy! See you next update :-)
> 
> **Disclaimer: This chapter contains character death and graphic description of murder, please proceed with caution.**

**AUGUST 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

Two days later, on the dot. Shane was informed to meet the team in the conference room at eleven in the morning. 

Devon had been the one to tell him, knocking her knuckles on the rugged surface of his door and greeted him with a snack to nibble on before the meeting. Shane didn't refuse, he knew that it was necessary to _have_ a meeting. Apart from Shane's current serial murder case, minor misdemeanors had been surfacing around the station that kept everyone busy.

Not connected to the three murders. Nothing _at_ _all_.

Whatever, he accepted failure the second he agreed to Ryan Bergara’s help. Speaking of, his foul mood not only amplified because of him, it was the ludicrous evidence that he brought against their perpetuator. Ryan Bergara wasn’t seen by Shane in the last two days; he knew that he wasn’t alone at least, Kelsey claimed to drive him to and from the Roseberry and Parker house.

Talking to ghosts, no doubt.

Sitting in the conference room, boredom across his face, Shane spun around in his chair and observed LeBlanc as she returned to her team's photographs of the Parker house. He knew that the assailant had left nothing behind aside from the message splattered on the kitchen's wall. LeBlanc essentially pulled her hair out trying to find anything, though all was left was a corpse and Shane's dignity.

Katie peered at him, her hair fell over her shoulders, “you talked to him, yet?” 

Shane assumed Katie was talking about Ryan, “nope, I haven’t seen the little guy. Kelsey said he was investigating both crime scenes.”

”More than you’ve been there yourself,” Katie joshed, chortling into her cup of coffee and turned away to her work. Aside from himself and Devon, Katie was the only one who found amusement in hassling him.

Devon lifted her head up, her eyebrows snapped together and she placed the book she was reading on the table, “you haven’t spoken with Ryan? Why not? You’re supposed to be working with him, Shane.”

“Am I?” Shane sighed, stretching his limbs towards the ceiling and grunted when he heard a satisfying crack, “it’s not like I drove him away, I just haven’t bothered to call him.”

“If you didn't think that it’s a good idea to have him here, why did you agree?” Devon questioned, mostly to herself because when Shane couldn’t find the answer to that (because, sure, he _agreed_ ,) she leant back and returned to her book, “he found evidence anyway, can’t turn him away now.”

He didn't… necklaces aren’t evidence!

Falling to his knees and begging help from LeBlanc was Shane’s last resort, and the moment Ryan Bergara walked inside the room with Steven on his heels, tossing two ziplock bags on the table, Shane was seconds away from _actually_ praying for his mental state. Shane sat still, unaffected when Ryan's eyes darted to him, his gaze lingered for a terse moment, as if he was waiting for Shane to speak. He didn't, and Ryan looked away.

“Good morning, Bergara,” Katie greeted with a smile, “what’s that you got there?”

Nodding to Steven, Ryan handed him a binder before exhaling. “I’m sorry for my absence, I just visited Susan Parker’s home for the second time and asked for privacy until I figured… this out.”

“All morning?” Katie asked, “that’s what you've been doing all morning? You were at the Parker house?”

“I was,” Ryan stated truthfully, “I did not find anything that linked to _these_ ,” lifting both ziplock bags from the table, marked with _Roseberry one and two_ on each respectfully. The necklaces he found were inside, void of all outside air and compressed into the plastic.

“These are cursed items,” Ryan continued, “or, they _were._ Found in both Mary and Isabelle’s rooms. In the cabinet behind you, I took two frames from their rooms after Steven confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Roseberry’s consent. They do not have photographs in them.”

“What’s the significance of the frames?” Devon directed this question to Ryan, who had opened his mouth to explain what Shane had heard before when Katie interrupted: 

“You brought _cursed_ items into this room?”

“They’re not cursed anymore,” Ryan selected with one of the ziplock bags, flattened it and revealed the locket to everyone in the table. Shane had hurled the memory of the necklaces to the back of his mind, though he remembered the engravings on the golden pendant and the silver chain crafted delicately on each one. They _were_ identical, it was true, so it was possible that Mary or Isabelle had bought them or someone had given it to them as gifts. 

“I blessed them using an infusion spell.” Ryan got a set of perplexed stares directed at him, because he _wasn’t_ a witch. He blew out his cheeks, “I _called_ my coworker and he helped. A twenty minute process that lasted two days. I am not a witch.”

“How did you do it?” Katie spoke for Shane, thankfully, he had not muttered a single word since Ryan got here. Motioning with two fingers, leaning forward on the table, Ryan gave Katie the ziplock bag. “You said a _spell_?”

Ryan frowned, “I butchered it plenty of times, and I did not think it would have a negative effect on me until I had gotten to the final step. That’s why I took too long. I left a few candles and sage behind too.”

“And Parker?”

“Nothing,” Ryan went on, “I think… I think the sisters had been hexed by the killer or an acquaintance of theirs. Hence the missing photographs from before, a cursed object needs a link to the victim. Susan Parker's house had nothing like this, yet, she most likely _knew_ the killer. That’s why she was killed.”

“Ah…” Katie muttered to herself, “the ol’ kill those who suspect you trick. Stumbled on a couple of those before.”

That’s true, Shane thought to himself. But Ryan’s theory was far from the truth. And if he speculated correctly, every time he had shown evidence he found in both cases, he had a report to type out. The report was in Steven Lim’s possession, who had his legs crossed, hand holding his head upwards, and eyes trained on nonsensical evidence.

If that report was published as planned, Ryan Bergara would be considered a maniac, a unhinged nutcase, drug addict that the police force brought in custody to debunk human involvement. Ryan would be humiliated, degraded into nothing but a man who lived in fantasy than realistic situations. 

People will target him.

“Steven,” Shane pointed at the report, “we shouldn't hold a conference about this. Let me read the report.”

“Since when am I your subordinate, Madej?” Without looking at Shane, Steven scoffed and closed the binder, “I wasn’t going to before, but this isn’t something to look over. Mrs. and Mr. Roseberry do not remember these necklaces, they do not remember Susan Parker giving it to the girls. It is not unreasonable to believe that they _had_ been gifts.”

“Maybe,” Shane felt Ryan’s eyes on him, he didn't want to look at him. Instead, he straightened up in his chair, “we’ll set up a reward for any valuable information on the necklaces and the missing photographs. But do not tell the public about a _curse_ eradicated by a paranormal investigator.”

“That’s not for you to decide, you did not _find_ these items,” Steven declared hastily, “do not forget your place Madej, it is Ryan’s choice what happens to the evidence. We will take it further from there.”

That’s what Shane was afraid of. 

They both looked at Ryan, discomfort dawned his features as Ryan gaped and glanced at the jewelry on the table. The look on Ryan's face made Shane square his shoulders and ground his jaw; upon meeting him, Ryan was shy, awkward, muttering a few words to the crew before showing his true colors in the Roseberry house.

Shane left the room when Ryan spoke to air, but in the creak of the door, he witnessed Ryan stroll around in the static-filled atmosphere of the victim's house. He had no words, looking at a deceased woman’s room as if he was sending his condolences to her through an inane device. 

He didn't see Ryan’s expression back then, but it must have been the one he had on now. 

With no time to reply, the door of the meeting room was flew open, an intern peered inside with his hand on the doorknob. Disoriented, he pants in rapid breaths and bent his head to apologize wordlessly. Securing the attention of all in the room, Shane opened his mouth to reprimand them when their intern blurted out: “there has been another. Susan Parker’s friend was found dead by his wife.”

Fuck.

Shane stood in his chair, grabbing his car keys and walked to Ryan’s side, “do not let these out of your sight,” he pointed at the ziplock bags and looked at Steven, “Ryan,” then gestured at a distraught Ryan, “you’re coming with me. Are you ready to show your face?”

“Is there an option to hide it with your jacket?” Ryan asked pensively, yet, he did not falter in his steps beside Shane. Shane did not think about stopping to ask anything to _anybody_ , and followed the intern for the address he would be given.

He didn't hide Ryan but left through the backdoor again. Routinely, Ryan closed the door and kept himself hidden in sight by using Shane’s height to his advantage.

“I’ve had cases where married couples killed each other for insurance money,” Shane spoke the minute he was driving, “do not forget that it’s possible that she’s in cahoots with the killer.”

“I won't stand in your way,” Ryan said instead, “I’ve never seen a body in real life. I’ll leave that to you.”

Shane turned his head for a split second, Ryan sat up straight, his posture did not falter as they drove though Interstate-90, “and what will you do? Scout the area?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve me _near_ a corpse, I’m going to search the places you wouldn’t think about searching. Bathrooms, bedrooms, floorboards. That’s where hex bags would be hidden in.”

Shane didn't ask what the fuck a hex bag was, his fist curled around the wheel and he stepped on the gas. He could only hope that Ryan knew that he was doing.

Turns out. Ryan did know what the fuck he was doing. Or what he was supposed to do. He didn't step out of Shane’s stolen car (from the department, don’t worry, he’ll return it eventually,) until he was told to and sat still until Shane looked around the area. 

Police cars blocked the street to avert any congestion, but people stood out front behind yellow tape in distress. There weren't many of them, however, as it was nearing lunch time during working hours, Shane had constricted time until people find their neighborhood closed off. He glanced at his watch, an hour from now, he'd have reports on his ass, and felt agitated of _any_ person spreading rumors about the new cadet beside Shane Madej. 

“What happened?” Shane asked an officer on the scene, the house itself was as grandeur as the Roseberry house, which was interesting considering that Ryan would have a pleasant time searching the area from top to bottom. The neighborhood was ten minutes away from Parker’s house, another five added from the Roseberry house on the other side of the suburbs.

Still, this was a fancier neighborhood, gated with security entrances that Shane had to work his way around. If the perpetrator somehow had managed to murder a man, get away in time, they either _lived_ here or knew the victim’s wife.

“Man found in the living room, slumped over and…” the officer paused, stared behind him and to Shane’s car. Something about that made Shane's unease demeanor worsen, he whirled around to spot a man looking into the passenger window of the car he drove, a camera around his neck. “Hey! Hey you’re not supposed to be here!”

True, but Shane had a different reason _inside_ and he bolted towards the car. Without touching the man, he looked inside of the car to… nothing. Nada. Ryan nowhere in sight inside of the car. Shane’s brows snapped together, looking back at the man standing beside him, “what the hell are you doing? Do you want to get arrested? Get out of here! This is a crime scene!”

“Sorry, sorry,” the man apologized profusely, turning his heel out of Shane’s sight. It was _one_ thing to have people staring at the house, but reporters trespassing? Fucking maniacs.

Feeling like a babysitter, Shane peered over to the officers on the victim’s front yard. Ryan wasn’t among them and he couldn’t be bothered to look for him now. It was possible somebody had told him to get out and follow them, if not, Ryan was somewhere in the car. 

“What of the victim?” Shane questioned the officer behind him, “he was found slumped over and...?”

“Decapitated.”

Shane narrowed his eyes, cursing under his breath and walked under the yellow police tape and into the house itself. The layout of this house was different, straight ahead was the living room, brightly lit with a chandelier overhead. Leather couches, a coffee table and a television was all he could see from the foyer. He had a second to himself before yanked latex gloves over his fingers and dodged LeBlanc’s team of forensic scientists.

He scooted over to the living room, taking in the two bookcases _filled_ to the brim beside a fireplace, adjacent had a recliner with the victim slouched on it. No doubt, without a head. One of the victim's arm had been rested on the arm of the chair, his fingertips blue, alongside with his complexion of a patchy amber. Shane walked past photographs of the family, full-aware he had been healthy and with a medium pigmentation to his skin. 

“Where’s the head?” Shane inquired, bent down to the victim’s body and sidestepped over the dried blood on the floor, it had been hours since he'd been killed… then for sure, the serial killer’s handiwork was ready for him to see. 

That got him a pair of eyes his way, apprehensive until Shane stood, “we need to speak with you about that,” one of the forensic members told him, she had her camera lens on the coffee table, taking pictures of the bowl of chips and an unfinished drink. “We found the head in the bathroom, but, um, so did your partner.”

Shane's lips pursed, jerking his face towards the direction of the foyer. _Of course he did._ “Got it, I’ll investigate it now. Where’s Bergara?”

The forensic investigator nibbled at her bottom lip as if Shane wouldn’t like the answer to his question. “He’s standing outside the bathroom,” she pointed upstairs, “he’s in shock but he’s waiting to speak with you. There’s something else we found… you should see for yourself.”

As he pivoted out of the living room and to the foot of the stairs, Shane stared at the stairwell and gave in, walking faster than before. Now, Shane wasn’t fond of Ryan’s beliefs, he was a skeptic, he loved science. And there wasn’t anything he hated more than people circulating _lies_ about an afterlife that didn't exist. At least in his head.

And yet, he saw it before he questioned it.

The hallway that Ryan had been standing by had been vandalized, the walls covered in red-colored paint of sigils that seemed outlandish to him. It covered the corridor from ceiling to the bottom of the hardwood, garbled words and anarchic illustrations he’s never seen before. Ignoring what he would deal with later, Shane ducked his head at Ryan.

He couldn't pin the blame on Ryan, who found a gruesome sight before Shane even got the _chance_ to walk into the house. And the way Ryan kept his head lowered, using the wall by the bathroom’s shut door, he was thinking of a way to get the corpse out of his head.

(Shane knew what that felt like.)

“Ryan,” he called out for him, tugging off one of the gloves he had on and held Ryan’s shoulder. When Ryan didn't answer him, he inched closer, inviting in the aroma of lavender that emitted from him, “Ryan. Relax and tell me what happened to you, why did you leave the car?”

With Ryan’s head touching his chest, Shane couldn’t see the expression in his face. But he suspected tears when Ryan sniffed and rubbed the sleeve of his denim jacket over his eyes. “I—I saw someone circling your car and an officer offered to investigate the house until you were done. They told me that the body was in the living room, I didn't know he—”

Lost his head?

Neither did Shane. 

“What did you see?”

“Look for yourself,” Ryan jerked his chin in the direction of the bathroom door, “his head…” he gulped, “it’s on the counter. But Shane—”

Shane lifted his hand, “Bergara, do us a favor and go outside. You don’t need to investigate any further. This is a deadly killer, after this one, I doubt that Steven will let you be in the public eye.”

Silence, then Ryan turned to Shane with bloodshot eyes. “And what? You’ll send me outside where everyone could see? I don’t know if you noticed while you were gone, I saw _three_ reporters taking pictures of me. I entered through the back door to avoid them, I didn't know there was a _head_ in the bathroom!”

“We’re not talking about that anymore,” Shane made an effort to sound reassuring, as well as not wanting to cause a scene aside from the one they’re investigating, “this is for your own good, this is dangerous for you to assemble nonsense all over the place. This man was targeted for a reason.”

It didn't end there, Ryan pushed himself off the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, “yeah, he _knew_ Susan Parker. I was there when it was announced to _you_. It’s too late to back down, especially when _I_ was the one who found evidence that linked the girls to the killer. Something that can be useful—”

“Seriously Ryan, this isn’t a _game_!” His voice boomed through the hallway, despite them being the only ones there, Shane lowered his voice and reached for Ryan’s shoulder to pull him towards the staircase. “This is a human, he’s killing people. There’s no _time_ for you to investigate paranormal activity, or ghosts, or anything demonic when people are being _killed_ —”

“It could help!” Ryan objected, hand extended to the bathroom door, he looked at it too, his face scrunched up, “this man was _killed_ too. If it _is_ a human, then they’ve done some evil shit, Shane, _dark magic_ shit.”

“If it is a human—” Shane mumbled to himself, then let out a mirthless laugh, surprised to hear the shit coming out of his new partner’s mouth, “of _course_ they’re human, Bergara. Are you kidding me? First you’ve fooled the team with _cursed_ objects and spells and now you’re convincing _yourself_ that dark magic is involved?”

Ryan’s eyes flashed with cynicism, no doubt it was targeted at Shane. He remained silent until he leapt away from the bathroom door, and scraped his boot against the rug that lined the corridor. “See for yourself,” the rug folded, and displayed another sigil underneath. Shane took one long look, but he knew that it wasn’t blood either. “This is a pentagram. You can go on and on about whether or not these sigils are _not_ associated with satanism since _you’re_ the expert.”

And in a quick motion, Ryan reached for the bathroom's doorknob and shoved it open with his elbow. In the spot Shane stood, he had a unmistakeable view of the victim’s head on the bathroom counter. An indescribable expression written across their pallid face, unspotted from blood, unlike from the sink and the floor, though it had not been as overpowered. The forensic team have been inside for a brief moment to mark the evidence collected. 

Still, Ryan took it upon himself to accidentally walk in this bathroom to look for discrete items. Only to encounter what Shane witnessed written across the hallway wall, identical to the ones out in the hall. This was different, the stench of blood was absent and Shane was inhaling chemicals instead. The victim himself had been so pale, where did all of his blood go?

This time, the killer had plenty of time to write those signs, and would take a millennia to decipher if Ryan was telling him the truth. The asshole was getting confident, he knew that Shane was struggling to catch him. He was taking his damn time, he decapitated a man to keep him quiet.

“I’m going to talk to his wife,” not wanting to see the victim for another second, Shane looked away to see his partner walk away from him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be in the car,” Ryan lifted his arm, tossing a hand-sized ziplock bag to Shane’s hand, “I found this behind the door, shoved in the crevice of the toilet.” 

Shane studied the ziplock bag, kept inside was a miniature bone. It was roughly the size of his index finger but before he could ask if it was human, Ryan shoved it towards him, “next time Shane, tell me if you want to get rid of me instead of discrediting everything I do.”

Shane held the ziplock bag, and glared as Ryan walked down the stairs, passing by the members of the forensic team and shoving his denim jacket over his head the second he opened the door out of the house. 

  
  


…

  
  


Shane inspected the bone, pressurized into the ziplock bag, he ran his fingers through the narrow fracture. Though he couldn't physically touch it, he felt the initial cut of the bone, rugged and sharp as he expected. He gave in, left the ziplock alone, and as he stuffed the ziplock into a box, Shane exhaled for the umpteenth time. Hours of research had landed him nowhere. It wasn't a human's bone, LeBlanc's team confirmed, and Shane had tossed the idea that it had been the victim's. But why would there _be_ a lamb's fractured rib bone in Amari’s bathroom floor in the first place? A dead end was all it got him, and—he hated to admit to himself—the pentagram couldn’t be ignored, it was exactly like Ryan said.

This wasn’t something he understood.

Or maybe, he was falling into the public’s hysteria.

The wife had nothing to say, she had an alibi, verified by her children's teachers. She had been at work all day, where she left her children for private tutoring and left around six-fifteen to pick up her kids, where she fed them, played with them and tucked them for bed at nine at night. 

Her husband was at work until six, heading home from his full-time job at a law firm and never went home. The autopsy revealed the cause of death of the man, but when you had misplaced your head, it’s becomes tricky. Forensic investigators ruled asphyxiation, however, their assailant had valuable time to stage a murder. Something that Shane feared would happen to Parker.

For the sake of this man’s sickening murder, Shane could only hope it was true.

But it also meant that the man wasn’t killed at the house, he was killed in his car. A car that was _missing_ from their driveway. Even a week later, officers couldn’t find the vehicle, and Shane, the kind soul he was (trying to avoid Bergara,) drove for miles to look for it too.

To no avail, he returned to Chicago and confronted with another report from Ryan, on _satanic_ rituals. He hasn’t talked to Ryan in a week, since they’ve left the victim’s house actually. He wasn't wary of Eugene's wrath, if he were to leave Bergara on his own. But Shane overheard from his coworkers that Ryan had been with Kelsey, and had reached a dead end himself. He had mentioned that he wasn't resourceful when it came to satanism, (because who _is_? _)_ and tried to reach out to practitioners around Chicago.

So far, Ryan’s roommate in L.A didn't know the significance of the signs either. Another dead end.

Feeling like he’s getting _nowhere_ with this damn case, Shane sighed and pressed his palms over his eyes, “I’m not reading this.”

“You’re being a child, literally, a toddler,” the voice, who belonged to the woman who threw Ryan’s report on Shane’s desk, remarked petulantly, “what? He took your toy? He’s not going to leave anytime soon.”

“Am I supposed to entertain his ideas? Ideas leading us _nowhere_?”

Kelsey—overly unforgiving woman when she _needs_ to be—slammed her hand on his desk to catch his attention. Taking days off to search for the victim’s car, on top of researching a lamb's anatomy, _and_ reading a new autopsy caught up with him and Shane’s exhaustion caused him to jump in his own chair.

“The bone he found,” Kelsey hissed, dangerously close to his ear, “we sent it down to forensics. We don't know where it came from. This can be traced, that’s what Ryan’s been doing. _Tracing_ , researching, trying to decipher the fucking signs—”

“And you,” Kelsey stressed, she gritted her teeth and pointed her ring finger at him, “you haven’t been an ounce of help towards him! Nothing but hostility from you. And, Shane, a man has been murdered. Now is _not_ the time to have a temper tantrum.”

“Why are you siding with him?” Shane glowered, his fatigue solidified him on his chair, whereas he wanted to walk away. Where had this _Shane the bad guy_ come from? Actually: “you _hated_ the idea of him working here.”

“He’s given us leads in a dead end, cold case, Shane!” Kelsey barked, her voiced reflected through the walls, loud enough at Shane could _feel_ the room tremor, “we’re desperate. You’re desperate! Seriously. Look at you! Haven’t shaved, bags under your eyes! Would it _kill_ you to ask for help once in a while? Be a little open-minded, he’s trying to help you.”

Shane had nothing to say to her, wishing that she left before he passed out on his desk. She ceased her shouts, but her eyes shone with tears. She was seething, he knew, but he gawked as she pressed her mouth in a thin line. Kelsey held her breath and sat _on_ his desk, crossing her ankles, as she wordlessly looked at him. 

“Look, I know times are tough right now, but,” Kelsey told him, intertwining her hands together and stroking her palm. She was tired too, it showed. In her wrinkled attire to the loose strands of her ponytail, she pressed, “I know you feel powerless, as if we’re against you,” she went on, “I know you’re reluctant to ask for help right now. But this is something out of our line of work. We may not believe it, but _people_ do.”

“Shane,” she tapped on the desk, “refusing to publicize the evidence Ryan found, not working with him, trying to send him back to L.A. You’re trying to scare him away.”

“I’ve known you for years, Madej. I know what the media does to you,” Kelsey pondered, as if she’s been through it too. Because frankly, she _has_. A woman as a detective, a superior position at that, there had been obstacles that she had to maneuver through since she started working here. The media tore her down anytime she _tried_.

Like Shane’s first case, one he had reporters breathe down his neck. Where it was left unsolved for a month or two, the media urged him to solve it, find the killer and bring the murdered victims justice. It was… he couldn't. He couldn’t find them. Not until he went as far as to suspect a mother.

People hated him though, and his reputation was in shambles before he got back on his feet. It sucked, they spit words at him, ones he couldn’t imagine, others, strangers he didn't know sympathized with him, calling him their _friend_ when they knew nothing about him. Reporters involved his mother, his father, people he loved. It cost him his friends and family.

Why… how could he sit here and watch it all happen to another person?

Someone he didn't know he ever meant to encounter?

“I shouldn’t have agreed,” Shane told himself, his tone humorless but let out a soft chuckle. His eyes studied the wooden table, as if there was something there that would resolve all of his issues, “he should be in L.A. He saw a man's decapitated head because I was careless, what else could happen to him? If the media knows about him, they will humiliate him—”

"You can't stop what social media does or says about him,” Kelsey scoffed, her pity for him was boundless as she knew what it was like to be scrutinized publicly. “If you want to help him, you have to work with him and _listen_ to him. And when the time comes… when the press hurts him, all you can do is be there beside him.”

Shane’s eyes trailed to her, he crossed his arms over his chest and locked eyes with her, “come on, you’ve done that for me, Shane," Kelsey threw her head back, cheekily poked his forehead in an attempt to ease the tension. He forced a smile for her, and she swung her legs as she quipped:

"And you _won’t_ for this man because he likes ghosts? You can’t deny that he has worked hard. Shane, he was awake for thirty-two hours with _god_ awful reception trying to recite a spell he couldn’t do on his own. But what surprised me the most, was when he went out of his way to bring you up, to bless you from evil. I just think it's funny, somehow, when you're acting like the biggest prick, he _still_ thought of you.”

As a skeptic, all of that was ridiculous. A waste of time to think about—and—

Shane drew his eyebrows together, _he did_?

_Why_?

As a skeptic, he _could_ respect Ryan’s beliefs and accept his help, and warn him about the media once they know about him. And like Shane should have had, a friend beside him at all times defending him against their cruel words, keeping them away from Ryan’s family and friends and his smile, as rare as it was when Shane was around, would be brighter when he talked to the tiny, static box.

He couldn’t reply to Kelsey’s words. She patted him on the shoulder, jumped from his desk and walked out of his office. 

Shane looked at the evidence in front of him, aching eyes examined the damn bone and he thought that a trip to the library was overdue. (And if he read books on witchcraft until dawn, that was _his_ business.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


“ _What do you mean he hasn’t spoken with you_?”

“I mean,” Ryan brushed the inner corner of his teeth, holding the phone with his other hand, “he has’t spoke’ to me in like a w'ek.”

Because Curly was too quiet over the receiver, Ryan thought he had lost connection and moved away from the sink. He left the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth and the faucet running as he dug through his hygiene bag for his contact lens case, “ _what the hell did you do? Did you make him angry_?”

“Me?” Ryan blurted, his mouth filled with toothpaste that he grossed himself out and ran to the sink to rinse off his mess, then replied once he had cleaned his mouth, “I didn't _do_ anything. I was doing what I was asked to do. Everything I told you was all I have been doing!”

He thought about it, wiping his face with a cloth, “wait, do you think he’s angry?”

“ _He’s a skeptic right_? _I don’t see why not. Those men… they can get angry._ ”

Oh, Ryan knew that. Lots of critics had sent him threats to make him stop whatever ‘bullshit’ he was doing and get an _actual_ job. Little did they know, Ryan _did_ have a job, he worked as a freelance paranormal investigator as a _hobby_ , he swore. Skeptics loved indignation, whether it be for his ethnicity or belief, but he didn't see Shane Madej as a man who would be riled up for who he is and doing what he was _asked to do_.

“ _You should talk to him, cool him down a bit,_ ” it was a nice suggestion, “ _show him your muscles, he wouldn’t be able to resist them_.”

Ryan’s eyebrows rose, “great. If only he could _talk_ to me. Haven’t seen the guy in a week and a half, literally, he fell off the face of the Earth. I know that I thought he had Zack killed for shouting at a press conference but what if the demon—wait, no, do you think _he’s_ a paranormal entity, think about it—”

A knock on his hotel room door interrupted him and Ryan froze. Recollecting everything Kelsey had told him when she left him there, (“do not open the door to _anyone_ if it isn’t any of us, if someone knocks, shut up and hide.”) and did not speak when Curly called for him.

Searching for a hiding spot, Ryan promptly opened the closet door when the person on the other side of the door spoke, “Ryan, let me in.”

Speaking of the man himself, Ryan was paralyzed on the spot as the man he was _literally_ talking about was standing outside of his door. And Ryan, being a normal human being, had just woken up at eleven in the morning. Was he about to be scolded? No way, it was his day off, he shouldn’t be. What is he doing here?

Thinking out loud, Curly gasped, “ _is he there_? _Let him in_!”

No, better yet, if he remained really, really quiet, Shane will go away. 

“I know you’re in there, Bergara. You’re not allowed to go anywhere without any of us. I’ll be the one escorting you today.”

Giving in, Ryan sighed, closing the wardrobe door and moved to his bed, “it’s my day off, I’m not supposed to go in.”

“It’s an open case, I’m going to the third victim, Daniel Amari’s house and I need you to _be_ there.”

That’s strange… that’s really strange, it was out of character for Shane Madej to ask him to _join_ him, so Ryan murmured to Curly over the phone, hand pathetically covered his outgoing words: “he’s going to kill me, he’s finally going to do it.”

“ _He’s not going to kill you_.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Shane heard him anyway and resounded Curly's words, “listen, I need to speak with you in person.”

“In person?”

“In person, yes,” Shane reiterated, knocking on the door, “can’t exactly do it over a plywood door, can I?”

_This door is made out of plywood_? Was Ryan’s first thought as he walked towards the door, opening it and locked eyes with Shane who had his arm lifted in the air about to knock on the door again. Thankfully, it _was_ Shane and not an imposter, wearing informal attire and styled his hair into a quiff, Shane wandered inside the hotel room. 

“Uh,” Ryan, unsure as what to do, lifted the hotel's telephone to his ear and listened to the crackle of their connection as he held the front door, “I’ll call you tonight, Curly.”

“ _Bye honey, show him your muscles_!”

He wasn’t going to do that. 

And yet, as Ryan set the phone on the desk, he turned to Shane who was occupied looking out the window like the pretentious mastermind he was, and Ryan felt it upon himself to lift his sleeves to his shoulders. Only because he was sweating bullets.

Shane didn't give him a _glance_ when he asked, “what are you doing?”

“Huh?” Ryan perked up, startled. His shoulders slumped as Shane give Ryan a suspicious gaze before turning back to the windowsill of his hotel room. 

“This hotel room is too open,” Shane notified, pulling the drapes towards himself, and blocked Ryan's view of downtown Chicago. “Your view is in front of another skyscraper and a few apartments.”

Not… sure as to what Shane is hinting at, Ryan scratched his bare arm before fixing his sleeves and walked towards Shane’s side. Despite Ryan being in his _pajamas_ , he looked out the window only to be pulled away by Shane. 

“Don’t do that,” Shane scolded, his fingers encased around Ryan’s wrist as he manhandled him away from the window. He’s done this before when Ryan _had_ slapped his hand away from touching the hexed necklace back in Isabelle’s room. Yet, his touch was docile and Shane had pushed him away towards further into the room.

“Anybody can lock themselves in any of those offices, targeting you in an instant,” Shane told him, making sure that Ryan was a few steps away from the windows before drawing the curtains even closer, “sometimes you wouldn’t expect it. I’ll tell Kelsey to give you a room that’s away from view.”

Ryan blinked, he turned to the window and he shuddered until he realized that Shane still had his hand around his wrist. “Well, if all fails, I’ll have to move in with you.”

“Oh boy,” Shane mocked his amusement, even if a curve of a smile appeared on his face, “wouldn’t that be something?”

In that split moment, Ryan thought that Shane would let go of him, but to no avail and they stood there in the silence of Ryan’s hotel room. “Uh, you can let go now.”

Shane’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at his hand around Ryan’s wrist. Like two pieces of an unsolved puzzle, conjoined in a way that Ryan didn't think would _ever_ happen, Shane said: “I will, if you promise you won’t run out of the door when I do. I’m here on business, not to torment you.”

Damn. He really was going to run.

“Okay,” Ryan moved his arm first, he held it over his chest and as promised Shane released his wrist. “What’s going on?”

In Ryan’s life, there are moments that couldn’t exactly be described with _words_. He could recall half of childhood without them, where his parents sat him down as they looked at him when he was coming out to them or when Curly’s grandmother grew ill; no words spoken, but the expressions on their faces spoke for them. 

And surprisingly, this was one of them.

Remorse transformed Shane's features as he formed the words he wanted to say. If Ryan was a medium, or a psychic, _hell_ , an empath, he would know what’s going on in that noggin’ of his. For now, he grounded his feet on the carpet and patiently waited. It was a good run, he liked working on this case, and surely the whole _I need you to join me on investigating the victim’s house_ was a ruse. 

He’s been fired before, it’s alright—

“I’m sorry.”

“I understand—” Ryan paused, his eyes rounded as he raised his bowed head, “ _what_?”

Shane’s expression dulled, he shut his eyes and repeated his words. “I’m sorry. For treating you like shit, humiliating you, you name it, I’m sorry.”

Shocked, Ryan peered at Shane, “wh—wh—what’s going on right now?”

“I get it,” Shane held his hand up, “it’s unusual for me to apologize.”

“Wh—”

“But I mean it, I do. I didn't _think_ about my actions and how it could affect you.”

“What—”

“You’re my partner,” Shane motioned to Ryan’s chest with his hand, “I agreed for your help and you _helped_. I don’t agree with _you_ on everything, I don’t but—but if I could _hypothetically_ consider your theories as evidence, then it might work.”

“What is going on—”

“Here,” Shane meticulously turned to the desk in Ryan’s hotel room, unaware that he had brought documents with him. He picked them up attentively, pulled out a sample page and held it up for Ryan to see. The title of the page itself was _sigils in satanism_ , confusing Ryan even more. “I researched the 'sigils' found in Mr. Amari’s house. It’s related to satanism rituals, mostly to summon demons. Hypothetically. If the killer _had_ a demon do their dirty work for them, then _hypothetically_ , your theory could be correct.”

Shane did research? _ON SATANIC SIGILS?_

“I wanted you to come to the house with me, to see if you could use that brain of yours to find anything else. Well, what do you say?”

“What do I say—” Ryan squinted his eyes at Shane. He looked normal, his beard was unkept, sure, hectic than usual. But if Ryan placed two and two together, that meant that Shane was up all night researching _this_. He didn't feel any negative energy radiating from him and the bag of Limpia on Ryan’s bedside table protected him from anything that could try to hurt him.

So, “I’m calling Kelsey—” Ryan walked to the phone, he heard a scoff and his arm was pulled back to Shane’s side.

“I’m serious.”

“Seriously _sick_ , what happened, you got a fever?”

“I’m taking all of this in too, _hypothetically_.”

Gripping the documents he had, Ryan studied the typed page again to make sure it wasn’t a joke. It looked to be genuine, as all the other pages stabled before and after, it was legitimate. Ryan observed demonic figures, with labels that dated back to the 1500s, and photographs of pentagrams with ink noting which rituals associated with them; Shane wasn’t kidding, there was _no_ way that he made anyone else do this.

Devon was busy, Kelsey was with Ryan, Steven wouldn’t joke about things like this. The handwriting too, the capital letters alone proved that was _Shane’s_. 

“Are you…" Ryan shook, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, his eyes glossed over before he could try and stop it, "are you making fun of me?”

“What?”

“Are you playing around? Because th—this,” Ryan trembled, the documents in his hands followed the tremor of his hands, he tried to keep his tears at bay, just in case, as Shane hadn't exactly demonstrated his trust towards Ryan, “this isn’t something to play around with. I wouldn’t mess with any of this, think about writing it down—”

“Or reading it out loud, I know. I didn't do any of that. Have you ever heard of a scan machine?” Shane exhaled, his hand reached for the documents that Ryan had and willingly asked for them, “I’m not an asshole, I wouldn’t make fun of you or what you believe in. When it comes to helping people find closure for their loved one, what choice do I have to reject your help?”

“Shane—”

“With evidence that’s getting us _close_ to them.”

Ryan's forehead creased, "people will call you desperate.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

That didn't make Ryan feel better! “You don’t have to do this, researching, trying to be on _my_ side on everything.”

“I’m not on your side,” Shane corrected, pointing at his own chest, “I don’t believe in any of it. But other people do and if our suspect _knows_ about it, then you're one step ahead of them. Help Mary, Help Isabelle. Help the victims that I couldn’t save.”

For the first time since he met Shane, vulnerability flashed across his face. He visibly unveiled his discomfort out in the open as Ryan’s eyes swam with tears. He felt dissociative from his own body, wanting to cry out for Shane’s sake. Ryan hasn’t been taking it easy since the last victim was announced to the public, since he _was_ appointed in the case and had to witness a decapitated head in a bathroom of a two-story house. Sleeping didn't come easy, or at all.

Shane was better off not being an investigator and yet, he’s still here. Ryan blinked away his tears and shook his head, “don’t blame yourself.”

Shane pursed his lips, bit his bottom lip and turned away from Ryan, patting his research in his hands. Those moments—the wordless moments that Ryan held dear to his heart—added another one from Shane, a look that spoke: _it’s not my fault, but they died under my watch_. 

Ryan maintained his silence, watched as Shane walked away and sat on his bed. “I’ll get dressed, we can go afterwards,” Ryan’s feet took him to Shane’s side, cautiously placing his hand on Shane’s shoulder and squeezed, “you’re not alone anymore, I’ll help you, okay?”

Shane’s eyes flashed, that stoic stare that he once gave Ryan when they first met disappeared and Ryan was staring at someone… new? He felt weight lifting off of his shoulders, his hand on Shane’s shoulder tingled as he let out a deep exhale, one that Shane probably needed.

Smiling tenderly, Ryan patted Shane’s back and turned his heel towards the bathroom of his hotel room, “don’t read the documents out loud, I swear to god Shane, if you summon a demon in my hotel room, I will never forgive you.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ryan whistled, turning his head and looking out the window of the car Shane had _borrowed_ from the station. “A beauty of a house.”

“Too bad the killer vandalized the interior,” Shane rested his chin on top of the steering wheel. “There’s a reason why I didn't suspect the wife.”

Ryan looked at Shane, he slouched, “why?”

With a deep breath, Shane leant back on the driver's seat and met his eyes, “she didn't complain about the value of the house.”

Doubt anyone would want to live in a house where potentially a demon was summoned in the first place.

“I have yet to see if the pentagram had sulfur residue or any if there’s any other sigil that I could recognize,” Ryan looked down at the documents on his lap, the ones that Shane had given him before. He had skimmed through the pages promptly on their drive here, without avail, he didn't know how to even _begin_ to decipher them. “Curly doesn’t have a clue. I don’t want to bring him into this.”

“Curly?”

Shit, this wasn’t Kelsey he was speaking to, “uh—uh, my coworker,” Ryan’s mouth curved into a smile, glancing at Shane as if to say _I didn't mean to say that_. 

Thankfully, Shane blinked and changed the topic, “right… ready? You wouldn’t… throw up or faint when you see the house again? Considering that you did witness a corpse unintentionally.”

Ryan shook his head. He hoped not.

Daniel Amari’s house didn't utter a sound. That familiar _creak_ of wooden porches that Ryan had stepped on before or doors with black fences in front of them—the houses that he was familiar with in Los Angeles, didn't come _close_ to the house he was looking at now.

Sure, he’s been here before, when the call from Daniel’s wife brought Shane and himself here a few days ago. But then, Shane had parked a house away and he had snuck through the backdoor minutes before he found his second piece of evidence. 

Nothing came from that bone, other than the inconclusive theory of a faux animal carcass. It was real. It was speculated that it had been synthetic and honestly, Ryan had doubted it from the beginning. A lot of rituals required the real deal, he infrequently had incidents with other people who gave them an artificial item for a price and the promise to bless them and their well-being.

Curly tried to stray away from counterfeiters, though, it couldn’t be helped.

Interrogating Mr. Amari’s wife—a kind young widow who took her children to her last living family member the minute her husband’s funeral was over—led the team towards another set of unanswered questions. The man himself was a lawyer, he worked night and morning shifts concurrently and his wife stayed at home during the weekends. There wasn’t anything unusual about her, no _strange_ person, no item that was given to Daniel.

Why leave the bone? Did they run out of time? Did they forget?

Ryan couldn’t lie to himself about _not_ feeling uncomfortable when he entered the Amari house. He recalled his heart drop when he swung the bathroom door open, the soundless gasp emitting from him and trying to relax before a forensic investigator dragged him away from the scene. 

Seeing said bathroom door from the foot of the stairs terrified him. He gulped, unable to tear his eyes away from the vandalized corridor and quavered from where he stood. He felt somebody loom behind him, though, he was frozen on the spot, motionless and balled his fists. Amari’s mansion wasn’t homey; it had been scrubbed clean inside and out, lawn taken care of by the gardener days before the murder and despite having two children, everything was in order.

He hated this house out of all of them.

“You okay?”

Shane’s voice echoed through the house, it wasn’t fully empty, as Mr. Amari’s wife took belongings that she and her children cherished. A lot of the furniture was encased by plastic, followed by the floor and blocked windows. Ryan became used to the stench of bleach, but never to the sight of what he encountered here.

Turning his head, he bit his lip and nodded, “yeah. It’s weird, coming back.”

Ryan felt bothersome telling Shane, _an investigator_ , that. He obviously had seen corpses, the houses, anything left behind the killer and was _used_ to it. 

“I’ll be honest,” Shane tried the light-switch by the foyer, though the house remained lightless, electricity must have cut off after Mrs. Amari had left, leaving him and Shane with no choice but to follow natural sunlight. “I threw up my first time seeing a body. TJ was my partner at the time.”

They walked upstairs, steadily. Ryan could see the illuminated sigils drawn on the hallway and he tightened his grip on the documents. Katie had mentioned her reluctance to cover them up, once the forensic team confirmed it had not been blood, they decided to leave it alone for Ryan to return back to. 

Shane noticed his reluctance and he paused, shoulders hid the sight of the hallway as he stepped in front of Ryan. “You know what TJ told me?”

He met Ryan’s eyes, “tell me if you want to leave. Don’t look, instead, look at me.”

Ryan nodded, forced his eyes to the hardwood floor with Shane’s shoes in view. He felt his head throb, but he concentrated and closed his eyes, relaxing his unsteady breathing as his partner stood beside him. What he felt before diminished gradually, and he watched as Shane led him to the staircase, where the killer had been—where they planned a brutal attack. 

And yet, Ryan felt safe with Shane around.

“It’s hard not to,” Ryan began, letting out a shaky breath, “you are gigantic, blocking everyone’s path.”

At first, Shane remained silent, pursing his lips. Ryan thought that he might have stepped a line with his joke—”that’s true. You and I know that it’s useful. Use it to your advantage Bergara.”

Then, he winked.

The asshole _winked_ at him. 

“A tree,” Ryan started, stepping to the side to continue up the stairs, “could do your job for you.”

“Alright,” Shane murmured to himself, shoes pivoting upstairs to stand next to Ryan.

The hallway was narrow, from what Ryan remembered. He kept his distance from the forensic team at the time, walking away to what he believed was the barren upstairs. He saw the sigils at first, spray-painted on the wall with a dark red, from the master bedroom to the other corridor that led to another bedroom. 

A series of symbols that were displayed, it couldn’t have been a coincidence that the killer wanted to show off. The pentagram was what threw him off, accidentally tripping over the rug as he scrambled away from the bathroom door when he first opened it. The forensic team left it alone, though the paint had faded somewhat.

They never did this before, why now?

“I don’t know how to decipher them,” Ryan spoke after a few minutes of observing each sigil. He turned to the documents at hand, except, they turned out to be of minimal help.

The sigils were crimson, almost a color identical to potent blood. It _was_ feared to be blood at first, perhaps blood that had been drained out of Mr. Amari. Each one of them had their story to them, but… written in a sequence and meticulously avoided to overlap the other. Marking both photographs and decorum to them; the perpetrator continued this _summoning_ spell and used the bathroom to their advantage.

Looking away from the documents, Ryan turned his head to find what he was looking for. When he found it, he closed the documents and gave them to Shane, “hold this.”

On the right side of the wall, a sigil, one that he was semi-familiar with was spray-painted. It had been dreadfully close to another pentagram, though, it had strayed from its initial design and proceeded to line up with what he thought to be as a word.

“What’s up?”

“This,” he pointed upwards, where the first sigil closest to the master bedroom had traces of several tries, “the mark of spray-paint started with a darker hue of the color,” he moved his finger to the bottom of the sigil, where dried paint dripped down towards the floor. “They started here.”

Ryan gesticulated with his hand, “this spell is read from right to left.”

“And the bathroom?”

“It must be a long spell,” Ryan mumbled, wondered what the reasoning behind that would be. He's never been to rituals of this caliber, he's never _been_ to a summoning ritual often to begin with, but this was a bizarre effort if they were to summon an outwardly entity. “They used it to their advantage, continued to summon _whatever_ they wanted by using the walls of the bathroom and—” he stopped, a sacrifice.

Understanding Ryan’s discomfort, Shane stepped away from the railing, “what happens next?”

Ryan turned to him, “what do you mean?”

“It’s a summoning ritual, right? What did he summon?”

At least something good came out of this. Ryan had no special _gift_ , he could not see the paranormal or come in contact with them. But he knew, he knew a person's aura or a jinx, he’s seen haunted locations and felt their negative energy radiate from them.

They must have failed. 

“I don’t feel anything here,” Ryan returned to the sigil, “it turns out that they failed. Maybe lack of materials or the use of _spray_ -paint nullified the summoning. That is, we assume the killer and whatever they had summoned aren’t working together.”

“They _failed_?”

“It did.”

“This… is the worst demon I’ve ever seen,” Shane commented, as if he’s _seen_ or met demons before. Granted, he must have, he worked for the government, sort-of.

Ryan mused, “we can’t say it’s a demon, maybe it’s a person practicing dark magic… it’s strange how they’re alive after all they’ve done.” 

“What does that mean?”

“People don’t live long enough if they practice villainy.” He may not have a lot of knowledge with demons, but he _did_ know something else. “I’ve met people who practice satanism, they have a single rule to not disturb others or the effects will return to you tenfold.”

“I had cases with people who have been hexed, all the time. A few years ago, a woman was sent out to see Curly and I, she was ill, severely ill.”

Peering over to Shane, Ryan was surprised that his attention was on him and _not_ the sigil. Somewhat timid, he pressed on the palm of his hand, pinching around with the blue latex, “um, she claimed that her boyfriend was trying to kill her using a curse he casted on her. She was right, he had carried around a cloth doll with her blood inside and she—”

Ryan paused. His apprehension grew as he spoke, but he kept his eyes on Shane and tried to relax.

“What happened?”

Ryan gulped, “she lived. But others don’t. The elderly and children are rare, their curses live to be petty acts of revenge on the family. People don’t know what caused their deaths.”

“The woman had come to us at the right time, Curly’s grandmother blessed her and sent her to a therapist. The boyfriend… he was arrested, allegedly of attempted harm towards another person and sentenced to a minimum of 40 community service hours.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And probation,” Ryan offered him a smile, he recalled how defeated she had been, crying in his kitchen table and feared for her safety. “The woman’s lawyer begged us not to testify. What else could we have done? He did not hit her, she was _cursed_. Would the LAPD believe any of that?”

Shane’s forehead creased, “she was in an abusive relationship. She must have been hesitant to ask for help. And what he was given was the best they could do? What if he sought her out again?”

“That’s my point, she left immediately. I see her, alive and well, every couple of months. The man… he passed away, two weeks after the trial from a heart attack at twenty-five. I believe humans don’t last long when they try an harm others with evil.”

“How come this killer hasn’t kicked it? Is there something else?”

Ryan thought about it, it’s surreal that the killer hasn’t died or fallen ill in any circumstance. They looked as if they had no trouble committing a crime and running away before they heard the news of a new victim. Though, it was all speculation. The woman he had considered a friend never stopped talking about her story, claiming the act of villainy against her was justified when her abuser died. Ryan couldn’t speak against it, he believed that he _must_ be careful with his actions.

Taking in a sharp breath, he looked at the pentagram on the floor, “if this was spray-painted, wouldn’t other family members hear it?”

It was a question for Ryan himself, though, he did not realize the validity of his pondered thought until Shane cursed under his breath. 

Without wasting daylight, Shane placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, “follow me.”

The living room was new to Ryan, he had been told to avoid it by any means as Daniel Amari’s body sat on the recliner. The recliner that had been covered by plastic, and Ryan almost lost it the moment Shane had said: “sit.”

Sit… sit on the… recliner?

An unusual request but Ryan didn't have a moment to think before his partner motioned to him to sit on the notorious chair. Reminding himself that it was _clean_ and draped in plastic, he rested his arms to his side and sat before he looked up at Shane.

“This won’t work if you’re sitting like that.” Scrambling over the coffee table, Shane observed to see how short the distance the table and the chair itself was. “The body was either planted here or this person is shorter than I am.”

“What are you doing?”

Shane brought his hands together, balled as fists as he swung lightly over Ryan’s head. “There’s no way a kitchen knife can decapitate a man without alerting the family. I’m testing to see how this would have worked. Pretend you are asleep.”

“Pretend—” Ryan maneuvered his body, crinkling plastic as he moved. He slumped backwards, resting his head on the top of the recliner. “Like this?”

“No,” Shane bent his knees, “that’s too short, Mr. Amari… was probably…” Shane kept bending his knees until he was practically face-to-face with Ryan, “no… the killer couldn’t be this short. It couldn’t have been a child.”

The urge of making _Shane_ sit down in the recliner as Ryan swung an imaginary object at him was heaven on Earth, “why don’t you sit down and I could—”

“No, no, I have to see how this would work.”

Ryan leant back again with a sigh, adjusting himself in a position plausible enough for a man in his mid-forties to be in after passing out from exhaustion. There was little he could do, and as he watched patiently as Shane swung, re-adjusted the movements of his hands—ah, he was testing out different weapons.

“No murder weapon again,” Ryan said after a moment after Shane had given up on pretending that Ryan was the deceased, “if the lawnmower at the Roseberry house was never recovered, whatever they used to decapitate a grown man is _not_ here. But the blood—”

Looking at the outline on the floor, it had been sampled by the forensic team before outlining it with white tape. Shane had seen it in person as Ryan saw the photograph. There was something about it, “Mr. Amari wasn’t killed here.”

“I know,” Shane glanced at the bookcase behind Ryan, squinting his eyes, “you are Mr. Amari’s height. Unless the killer was shorter than _you_ , which is impossible unless it was a child,” Ryan glared at Shane, “the body was placed here after he was decapitated. A puddle of blood doesn’t match the damage done on Mr. Amari’s neck.”

Ryan drew his eyebrows together. That’s new. He refused to see pictures of Mr. Amari’s body in the first place, seeing as he found a part of him on his own. Still, he didn't think ahead to see how the cut had looked. Given the situation Ryan was in at the time (literally, hyperventilating,) he didn't bother to see. 

“He was chopped several times, it shows on…” Shane gestured to his own neck, tilting his head and tracing his thyroid to the back of his neck. Ryan, comically watched as Shane tried to solve a puzzle. The grandfather clock, the antique that Mrs. Amari kept in the house, ticked as he waited. 

A motion in time that reminded the both of them that time was always valuable and their time in the house, looking for evidence was either hit or miss. This time, it appeared as if they were on the same side of a rusty coin. 

“That’s funny.”

Looking upward, Ryan caught Shane’s eyes narrow at the bookcase again. In the blink of an eye, Shane walked towards the bookcase and like everything else in the house, all it’s items had been covered in plastic. Shane was a loose cannon, he had searched every part of this house (according to himself) that had _nothing_ of value. 

And yet.

“The plastic had been removed.”

To answer the question that Ryan was about to ask, Shane lifted the plastic off a picture frame, the photograph intact. Ryan stood, lifting himself up with the arm rest of the recliner to Shane. “What do you mean? Nobody is allowed in the house.”

Shane took in the sight of the photograph, flipping the frame and checked all possible angles. “I’ve seen everything in this house, Bergara, I’m telling you, the plastic wrapping was removed and placed again. I would know, I was the one who saw the team do it.”

The photograph was nothing out of the ordinary as Shane let him take a peek—a picture of Mr. Amari and his wife, his children absent but with a glance at her stomach, it was clear that she had been pregnant at the time. “What does that mean for us?”

Shane clicked his tongue, “I feel like I know where this was taken, there’s—wait,” Shane squinted his eyes at the photograph, “there’s another picture behind this.”

Swiftly, Shane flipped the frame, unclipped the back part of the frame before revealing two pictures. Shane held the glass with his other hand as he picked out the smaller polaroid, holding it up for him and Ryan to see. 

The photograph, dated years prior from the one before, had been creased and blotched with brown rings. Still, it was visible to the human eye and Ryan saw a pregnant Mrs. Roseberry with Daniel Amari, Susan Parker standing alongside another woman and another man he’s never seen before. It was… it was a lead.

“Fuck, that’s—I know the man in this picture.” 

“Think that it’s our killer?”

Shane's eyes rounded, “for his sake and ours, it’s our best bet,” Shane tossed the picture towards Ryan, handling the frame with care and covered it with plastic to display on the bookcase. Almost as if it was never touched to begin with, “if not, somebody was here and looking for this,” Shane pointed at the photograph.

“I hope you like field trips, Bergara, time to move.”

Field trips were great, he loved _being_ out on the field. But—what Ryan had come to realize after living in Chicago for a month and a half—he was used to buses and not cab rides. He was used to walking with friends around Hollywood and not in a stolen four-door with an investigator who was currently in disastrous traffic downtown Chicago. 

An sudden change, Ryan forced himself to believe that it was for the better. 

“We’re back to zero,” Ryan sighed, shuffling the photographs of the signs in the Amari house, all of them had terrible quality to them, thankfully, Ryan had a good memory. He scrambled to gather them all, organizing them into a stack, “if I don’t know what they mean or what the ritual _was_ , there’s nothing I can do.”

Shane didn't like this, stepping harder on the gas, the car accelerated and Ryan yelped as he moved with the inertia of the car. “Don’t look into it anymore, you’ll find something.”

_But_ _there’s nothing_. 

“If by some miracle I find something that links this man we’re visiting and the killer,” Ryan decided to listen to Shane, and shoved the photos into the manila folder, “who is it anyway?”

“An old friend,” Shane replied, cursing as he drove, “we went to college together. Didn't know he knew Susan or Daniel, I’ll just ask him a few questions.”

Falling silent again, Ryan nodded to himself and looked out the window. He couldn’t help it, “are you playing bad cop or am I?”

“I didn't know we were playing in the first place."

“What if he’s taken off guard? Like… if he throws a hex bag at you or something—”

“I don’t know what that means—”

“If he starts talking under his breath, you should run.”

“And you?”

“I’ll run too, in the _other_ direction. He can only chase one of us.”

Shane scoffed, though, by the looks of it, he must have thought that it was smart to split once danger was inevitable. Ryan didn't think twice about running in the other direction whenever his mind warned him that the situation was about to escalate. (There’s proof of him in several exorcisms he was invited to witness, all of them ended with Ryan either running out after ten minutes or sprinting home with horrified looks over his shoulder.)

In a seconds notice, Ryan’s thoughts had been interrupted by a noisy horn, jerking his head upwards to see their four-door stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. Shane gave in, throwing his arms in the air then turned to Ryan, “you’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, he’s not that kind of man.”

“How do you know?”

“I know him,” was Shane’s defense. _Knowing_ a person was different from knowing what they do in their spare time. Ryan’s life was a big example, his friends didn't know Curly practiced brujería in their shared apartment or that they had a backdoor that led to a storage room for antiques. Or that Ryan _talked_ to ghosts on the regular.

Shane may have known what this guy wanted him to see. And yet, Ryan didn't push it. Deep, deep, in that stolid expression of his, Shane cared for people that he loved and knew in his life. Perhaps this man was one of them. Who was Ryan to tell him otherwise?

Besides. There was still the daunting possibility of the killer _not_ being human.

In the end, Ryan turned away to the traffic before him and spotted a fast food joint. He didn't get to express his delight before Shane outwardly replied with _No._

Finding Shane’s friend, Garrett, was a lot harder than Shane had probably anticipated. In the end, Shane had to convince Devon for Garrett’s information in the _middle_ of the traffic they were stuck in. Ryan’s stomach hated this, but he did not whine and instead stuck to Shane’s side as they walked through Garrett’s yard.

Shane’s back covered most of Ryan’s peripheral (most of the time,) but it wasn’t anything close to the Amari or Roseberry’s house. A lived-in cottage, was how Shane described it, and he believed that Garrett and his friend (who was his boyfriend in college) rented the place after they graduated.

Garrett was as tall as Shane, identical hair and jawline, and if it weren’t for the transparent glasses that Garrett currently wore, Ryan would have called him _Madej_ out of nowhere. He greeted them with a smile, taking his eyes away from Shane to Ryan, “oh, this is your partner?”

“Not in the way you think,” Shane replied, “this is Ryan Bergara.”

That’s a new one. Ryan’s mouth curved into a smile as Garrett’s expression turned into one of dismay, he looked back and forth from Shane to Ryan, “didn't know you had it in ya, come in, I’ll show you around!”

The house itself from the outside had been rustic, its white walls deteriorating and a steep ceiling. However, as soon as Ryan stepped into Garrett’s living room, it was completely different. With peach colored walls, picture frames arranged neatly, with decorum and IKEA furniture.

A tour of the house was appreciated, Ryan had compiled a floor plan from memory of every room, what to search in and what to leave alone. In the end, it was a abrupt visit from Shane and Ryan (as Shane didn't call Garrett until he was parked _outside_ ,) leaving minimal time for Garrett to hide anything discriminating.

That is, if he was their killer and _if_ it was hidden. Ryan could find it.

“You want oatmeal cookies?” Garrett’s voice echoed from his kitchen, a small, two-counter-stove-and-fridge area with a table for two. Shane looked down at Ryan where he stood, shrugging off his brown jacket and handed it over to Ryan. 

“I’ll keep him company,” Shane whispered to him, gestured to the kitchen slide door with his chin. “Don't go overboard. If you need to use my jacket to touch items go for it. Don’t take too long.”

Shane’s gaze lingered at him, it was unspoken, but Ryan knew that Shane was _thinking_ about it. _Be careful_.

Ryan nodded, holding Shane’s jacket in his grasp and watched as Shane distracted their host.

He went to work instantly. The second he heard Shane’s booming voice, Ryan walked out of the living room. 

What he was looking for, he didn't know.

Hexes in witchcraft take time, patience. They take energy. He’s never thought about hurting anybody, but he _knew_ the dedication that prerequisites the art of dark magic. Sensing nothing in particular, Ryan busied himself to walk towards the bathroom, peeking behind the toilet bowl and wrinkled his nose when he found grime in its place. 

Opening cabinets, searching under the floorboards, the side of closet doors and the top of dressers. Leaving him stunned at absolutely _nothing_. When he returned to the living room, he was caught by Shane and Garrett leaving the kitchen.

Shane and himself met eyes, for a split moment, they grew wide. As Shane nervously laughed and held Garrett’s shoulders to grab his attention before he saw Ryan, he paused and whirled around towards the direction of the foyer.

He could barely hear the _Ryan is out in the car, he’s getting my_ before the slide door closed behind him. A kitchen was commonly the primal spot for witchcraft. Curly spent a lot of his time in theirs, sewing leather pouches, infuse botanicals and extract oil from petals. Even if Curly stashed his ingredients away from sight, everybody is different. Besides, their suspect had other intentions.

He searched the kitchen, muttering under his breath when his go-to areas had been empty. The top of the fridge, where dog treats and snacks were, void of anything remotely cursed. 

“Fuck,” he uttered in a rasping tone, predictably relieved that Garrett wasn’t the guy. But, it meant that it was a dead end. Again. He shook himself out of it and, with Shane’s jacket, turned the doorknob to the balcony.

Garrett was not their suspect. If there’s anything to take away from his house, it was that it had aged and _nothing_ of a spec of negative energy remained. It was too early to judge, but Ryan had seen houses of those who had been dwelled with witchcraft outside of Curly’s expertise. Their houses hoarded, antiques to the roof and auras that Ryan couldn’t handle to stand in for seconds.

He didn't feel anything. 

Ryan jumped the fence, literally, and crossed the front lawn before he was at the front door again. Garrett opened the door when he knocked, narrowed his eyes at Shane’s jacket in Ryan’s arms before he looked over his shoulder at Shane.

“I could have sworn you had your jacket on,” Garrett’s head turned back to Ryan, and obliviously, brightened as he opened the door wider for Ryan to walk inside. “You must have been cold, Shane told me that you’re from Los Angeles.”

“I am—was—I was cold, uh, I remembered Shane left his jacket in his car, but he parked so far,” Ryan lied, walking in and shook Shane’s jacket to emphasize his point. Without realizing that he had thrown himself into a ditch to die in.

“Chicago gets colder at this time a year,” Garrett continued, “sit!”

Ryan shrugged Shane’s jacket on as Shane leant back on Garrett’s couch, spreading his arms on the backrest and covering his laugh with his hand. 

In his mind, Ryan imagined himself throwing the jacket at his stupid, smug face. Of course, _of course,_ Shane would say that he couldn’t handle the cold of Chicago because of his weak L.A self. Jokes on him, Ryan felt chilly.

(Not because he was from Los Angeles, but because under 60 degrees _is_ cruel.)

“I haven’t seen good ol’ Shane in a long time,” Garrett said, his living room was minuscule, though homey for somebody to live in the suburbs of Chicago. “Didn't think he would get married anytime soon,” Garrett clicked his tongue, “can’t say I’m not surprised to see him with a paranormal investigator.”

Ryan froze on the spot, Shane’s jacket on his shoulders now denser than before. “Sorry? Married?”

“Yeah,” Garrett inclined his head, eyes scanned his college friend with an accusatory gaze, “Shane told me that you’re his partner—unless you’re comfortable to keep it on the down-low, I can respect your wishes.”

That’s sweet of him and all. But Shane wasn’t his _lover_! Gone for ten minutes at _most_ and Shane had an entire fantasy of _how they met and fell in love_ to retell for his college friend? That’s great. Thrilling. 

It wouldn’t have angered Ryan as much if they hadn’t agreed to not keep the whole _paranormal investigator_ working on the case from the public.

“We’re not—”

“We’re not like that,” Shane interrupted inanely, “Ryan’s a private person, but he’s defensive over our relationship. His muscles? He could beat anybody up if they talked shit about us.”

Yeah, Ryan would love to have a talk with Shane’s face with his knuckles after their visit. Disguising as Shane’s lover, Ryan straightened himself on the couch, grinning like a mad man, “that’s right! I would defend my man! You can understand right? You have a special lady or man in your life?”

He felt Shane’s eyes on him, Ryan kept his own on Garrett's perplexed expression. He sat through their momentary bickering, almost looking as if he wanted out of the conversation. At the mention of a relationship, he coughed, adjusted the frames of his glasses and shook his head whilst holding his hand on his knee, “I’m not supposed to tell you this because it _might_ get serious, so,” Garrett began, loomed forward on his accent chair. “I had a date with a woman last month and I think we’re hitting it off, this could be _it_. She used to be my friend in college and her cousin? Christ, she was a charmer.”

Shane and Ryan looked at him, dazed, before locking eyes with each other. Ryan didn't expect Shane to give Garrett the news that the woman he’s been seeing was dead, if it _was_ Susan. 

“Really?” Shane asked, genuinely curious, “I thought you were with your boyfriend in college.”

“I was,” Garrett spread out his hands, “we broke up after graduation. Speaking of college, see,” he pointed at Ryan, then towards Shane as if to say _this man? I’ll tell you all about it_. “Shane was a flirt, he loved to hook up and date. So this one time—”

“Let’s not—”

“No, no,” Ryan waved his hand over Shane’s face, “I want to hear it.”

“So, this one time—”

“It really isn’t necessary—”

“He took this girl out to the amusement park he worked at. She was _terrified_ of heights. Shane found it romantic to take her on the ferris wheel and she _threw_ up on him,” Ryan’s smile transformed into a laugh, he wasn’t Shane’s lover but good golly, whoever was in the future would have a kick out of the stories Garrett had. 

And he had _plenty_ of them. Garrett spilled the beans about Shane Madej more than any reporter had. He was an awkward man when he attended Columbia College, studying on the weekdays and heading out to camp out on the weekends. (Once, he grew out his beard to go camping and act like a squatter for no reason but to make others laugh.)

Shane found their visit heading into the wrong direction and excused himself to the kitchen to grab more coke for himself. Ryan’s laughter died down as he watched him go, he couldn’t have been upset right— “you’re not his fiancé, are you?”

“What?” Ryan’s head whirled towards Garrett, his expression hadn’t changed to one of resentment, instead, sadness was written across his features, “no, I—”

“You don’t have to lie, I read the papers too. I know why you’re both here, Shane hasn’t bothered to ask,” Garrett cocked his head, “it’s that… Shane didn't tell you any of the stories that I mentioned to you. Even his last girlfriend knew them all.”

Ryan opened his mouth, though, he couldn’t exactly tell him otherwise. He knew nothing about Shane and it's obvious that Garrett _did_. 

Garrett diligently loomed over his coffee table, motioning to Ryan to get closer to him. He did, nearly over the coffee table when Garrett lowered his voice, “before he went off on his own, he was happy. He came to visit after a year as a detective and he… I saw the change in him. I knew the press had written horrible things about him. Don’t be angry with him for lying to me about you. He’s trying to keep you—”

The sound of the sliding door opening noisily startled Ryan but Garrett was ready, his demeanor switched as did his tone, and he pretended that he was retelling a story about Shane to Ryan. Shane groaned and sat down next to Ryan. “Have you told him the avocado pit one yet? He’d get a laugh or two in about that one.”

As Shane sat down, Ryan realized that he had two cups in his hands, he set one down beside him and the other in front of Ryan. He hadn’t noticed that he had run out of coke and Shane took it upon himself to give him some. 

Ryan huffed, acted as if what he had heard didn't affect him and drank some of his soda, “love to hear it another time, you should get to what you wanted to come here for,” Ryan said, placing his hand on Shane’s arm, making sure he didn't cross any boundaries, “I’m tired. I’m sure you are too.”

Cringing, Shane’s arm flinched at Ryan’s touch and he turned his _good_ - _cop_ switch at his old college friend. Garrett didn't seem fazed, and in the end, he knew Susan Parker as the woman’s—the one he’s currently dating—cousin. Thankfully, Ryan was relieved this didn't turn into a crying fest. 

“Susan… I knew her from Lydia. Sad what happened to her,” Garrett verbalized his condolences, the longer Ryan watched his movements and the energy he gave away, the more he began to learn about him. Garrett was not the man they were looking for, this was true, and he felt remorse for two friends he’s recently lost.

He raked a hand through his hair, then messaged the back of his neck, letting out a deep exhale, “Lydia was my crush in college, though, she was dating other men at the time. We never got around to reconnect until Susan gave one of my buddies her number several months back.”

“I didn't know this,” Shane murmured, his eyes squinted as if to try and remember the memory from the photograph. He jabbed his elbow at Ryan who had the photograph with him, he reached into the inner sleeve of Shane’s jacket and unfolded the photograph for Garrett to see. 

His hands trembled as he grabbed it, and with the jittery of smiles, Garrett rubbed his hand over his mouth. “That’s them alright, this was when Daniel had graduated. Susan was enamored with Daniel, her love was always for him.”

“Was Daniel married at the time?” Ryan asked, he looked at the photograph when Garrett nodded, repeating to himself that they had been engaged at the time. Jealousy? Could it have been jealousy that killed Daniel and Susan? Then what about the Roseberry sisters? They couldn’t have been embroiled in their drama, they were young, likely toddlers in 1979.

He stated his thoughts to Shane when they left Garrett’s house (with the promise of going out for dinner on Friday as a _double-date_ ordeal. And honestly, Ryan couldn’t deny it since Shane promised he’d pay.)

“You think the parents had anything to do with Susan and Daniel’s murder? What about their kids?”

“It could be a chain reaction,” Ryan mulled, stepping away from Garrett’s lawn to Shane’s hijacked (" _Borrowed_ , Ryan,") car. Chicago’s sun begun to set amid the timeframe of _seven_ in the afternoon and he was due for his daily phone call with Curly in an hour. Though, his head spiraled with theories of what could have happened. “Someone killed their daughters in an act of vengeance, they retaliated? I don’t know, it could be anything.”

“And when I thought this case wasn’t a convoluted shit-show,” Shane opened the driver’s door and looked at his wrist watch, “we got some time to ourselves, want to go to the office or to your hotel room?”

Kelsey would ask him the same when his shift had been over. Ryan wasn’t coerced to do any overtime, in fact, it was optional unless there had been a break in the case. He would ask Kelsey to drop him off without thinking about it… and… he didn't know. He felt weird, he didn't exactly have a _bad_ time with Shane at all, he was… decent to be around?

Is that the word for it?

(Curly is going to love this.)

“I don’t know, what are you going to do?” Ryan questioned, kicking himself in the shin when Shane looked at him, bewildered. 

“Me?”

“You, what do you normally do in the evenings?”

“Well, if you _ought_ to know Bergara, I work. I’m going to write a report tonight about Garrett and the evidence found at the Amari house. And,” Shane smiled, voice swarmed with sarcasm, “if I’m lucky, head out to see the forensic team in the morning! Oh boy!”

Ryan’s laugh was unexpected, though he _giggled_ and found his partner hilarious for once. Maybe trees could be amusing, who knew? 

But what surprised Ryan the most was the following words that came out of his mouth: “need help? I can be of use. You know, so you—you can leave earlier or something. You’re starting to look like me when I don’t get enough sleep.”

“Oh god,” Shane’s hand reached for his cheek and he leaned on the car’s door, “I’m not shrinking am I?”

Ryan gaped, “I take it back, I hate you with every fiber of my being.” He yanked the passenger door open, or _tried_ to because he received the result of a locked door. Ryan looked at Shane for help only to see him smiling to himself as he twirled the car keys in his hand. This devil, this sly devil.

“Alright, little guy, you can help me around. Hope you like reports, get in, we can grab some grub on the way there.”

Excitement bubbled in the pit of Ryan’s stomach when he heard that. He smiled as Shane struggled to fit in the four-door (because he was _too_ tall for it’s small seats,) and dismissed the butterflies in his stomach as happiness for getting free food. 

Yeah, that was it.

Ryan pulled on the car door handle, it was still locked. Tapping on the window, he yelled for Shane to let him in and his partner chuckled to himself, reaching over the passenger seat and unlocking it for him. 


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Another week another dollar hehehe. I've gotten a bit better on remembering to edit even though it takes me a WHOLE DAY. I just can't wait to update for all of you! I've read all your comments and they make me so happy, thank you to everyone who has left a comment, kudos or just read on their own time, you're all stars!!!!! \o/
> 
> This is another long one~~ I hope you all enjoy! Much love xxxxxx
> 
> _Translations are at the end of the chapter._

**SEPTEMBER 1988**   
**Chicago, Illinois**

“I’ve got news!” Devon’s voice boomed in the meeting room, “the Roseberry trial has finally ended. They sued _Chicago Daily Tribune_ and _The Sun,_ and _won_. They are to give them, and get this—” she slammed a copy of the local newspaper on the table, “ _one million_ dollars for the backlash they have caused on their family.”

“That’s great! If they weren’t suspects,” Shane clicked his tongue, tugging on the sleeves of his denim jacket and crossed his right leg over the left. Funny, he found himself at a crossroads _again_ with this enormous caricature of a case _right_ when he had promised himself he wouldn’t be. He practically jinxed himself.

“I can’t have it all,” Devon groaned, tumbling into an empty chair beside Shane. Strands of her blonde hair fell over her eyes as she tilted her head to Shane, “I shouldn’t have encouraged them to sue,” sighing, she straightened herself up, “if word about them as our first possible suspects gets out, we’re screwed.”

“Don’t give yourself all of the credit. I was the one who told you to do it,” Shane replied, and placed a hand on her shoulder, he squeezed it and she gave him a soft smile, “you couldn’t have known.”

And Devon couldn’t have known until _today._ Days after visiting Garrett at his house, Shane had occupied himself in his office to finish the last of the reports he had on file. Calls had been quiet, Kelsey and Andrew had returned from their own projects with nothing on the main case itself. He didn't think it was rare that cases would go unlooked for, it took months, even for Shane.

Today marked month two since the sisters had been found. And the longer the killer remained dormant—anxiety ate away at Shane like an insect having a field day. 

Weeks after Amari’s death, the killer’s tracks stalled. Autumn breezed through Chicago without a sign of them; peaceful nights would pass by, and Chicago’s citizens began to think that the perpetrator had a vengeance for the four victims, since, well, they had been connected somehow. Others (not to _name_ anybody,) believed that it had been an entity and it lost its energy to kill again.

Even Ryan thought it could be plausible, though, he couldn’t be sure. Speaking of, the little guy hasn’t found a _spec_ of evidence since the locket. The demonic sigils remained a mystery, partially because of Ryan’s disinclination to try to decipher them and accidentally summon an unearthly entity himself. 

On the other hand, Shane didn't believe such baloney.

It’s likely the perpetrator left the state with Amari’s car. Or, hiding somewhere. 

Fuck. Not _knowing_ where to go from here tormented him. He was literally a sitting duck, and guess what? The killer, the _piece of shit_ , probably watched him and laughed as he lost all sense of sanity. He’s lost it all since he’s found solace in a paranormal investigator who insisted that witchcraft was real. 

(He introduced Shane to the spirit box. That’s when the line had been crossed, obliterated and lost in obscurity.) 

“Shane, _Shane_!”

Squinting his eyes, Shane glanced at Devon and mustered up a polite smile, “yes?”

“Are you okay?” She asked, inclined her head at him, and pinched his lower eye, “I lost you for a second there. When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“I slept fine,” Shane winced, truthfully too. He had coffee this morning, _sure_ , but he had seven hours of rest before waking up to attend the meeting that would hit the gravel and decide the fate of Ryan Bergara’s evidence. The man himself had asked to stay with Shane to help him with his work—and it’s been going well. 

They would often stay up in the office across Shane’s, sitting on a wooden desk behind the corkscrew board with pictures of evidence and the victims (though, Shane had put those away for Ryan’s sake.) Side-by-side, they talked until late at night and fell asleep there, practically sharing the couch until Devon woke them up. 

(Kelsey, bless her soul, scared for Ryan’s life, demanded to know _why_ Ryan hadn’t been in his hotel room for days. Now, they had to relocate to Ryan’s hotel room to work.)

“So,” Devon proceeded, she twisted her body to face him, and interrupted his deep inter-monologue about his partner. “Something on your mind? Maybe... Someone?”

Devon had been one of the few people in his life that didn't give up on him. She would know if his brain overheated with information he couldn't use, whenever a case lasted longer than a few weeks, she _knew_ that he'd break-down and urgently seek for the truth. She'd seen his relationships crumble before him, exploited to homicide and days after ignore his calls. 

The only person who swirled throughout his mind was someone he wasn't interest in dating; Ryan Bergara's tardy self had him on edge but he couldn't say why. Rather than to bring Ryan up, Shane nibbled on his bottom lip before he tossed the pen in his hand on the table. Placing his elbow on the table, he spread his arms, enunciating word-by-word, “it’s possible that I got two killers one million dollars.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Our culprit is inexperienced, lacked knowledge that could lead us to a runaway serial killer, but,” Shane laughed mirthlessly, “it’s _two_. Under our noses, it’s simple, easy. The sisters were killed. The Roseberrys retaliated,” Shane lifted his hands, extended two of his fingers before another, “killed their daughters' murderer and—”

Shane shook his head, eyes wavering as he pieced the homicide together in his head, “it answers a lot of questions. We could bring them in, interrogate them again and show them the evidence behind this. But—”

He didn't believe it.

For the first time, he surprised himself, he didn't believe his own theory. 

Not because it _wasn’t_ possible, it was. It could be. Only, Bergara had a strong case behind him. If it weren’t for Shane behind his shoulder, he would have waved him away. What could have explained the ritual at Amari’s? Or the hexed jewels at Roseberry’s? What could have explained spray-painted sigils on the walls? The pentagram?

The blood? 

Unless the murderer and the Roseberrys had a motive, it was impossible to tie them to it. It was too much of a stretch.

He had no choice but go with his gut, and his gut told him he was wrong. 

“Nothing,” Shane waved his hand, taking the red pen back into his hand and fell back to his chair, crossing his legs over. “It’s not important, we’ll talk about it when the rest get here.”

He felt Devon’s eyes on him, drearily holding her folder to her chest and stared at him. She kept her silence until Shane heard the distant voices of two of his wonderful friends and, Ryan of course. 

For what it’s worth, Steven had taken the chance to bring in Andrew to a meeting for the first time in months. Shane never had anything against Andrew, he never went out of his way to talk to him though, just a wave or nod as a hello at the office. He had been preoccupied with clients, though Andrew had tried to look into stolen cars outside of Chicago, anything that could find Amari's car.

Because it’s _likely_ Mr. Amari was killed in his car.

Ryan agreed with him. Having told him that the blood found in the bathroom had been from Mr. Amari, served as a duplicate source from _in_ the living room.

(“Where do you think Mr. Amari’s blood went?” Shane had asked Ryan, taking a sip of his coffee.

Ryan exhaled, slouching his shoulders as he looked over the folders in front of him, “vampires?”

Shane told him to _stop_.)

On that note, Shane looked from his seat to the sight of Ryan walking behind Steven and Andrew. They must have introduced themselves to Devon and himself, but his sight had locked on Bergara. He had his button down tucked into his black dress pants, sleeves folded to his forearm, exposed his bicep muscle he’s worked on his days off (sometimes, in his hotel room before Shane would walk in on him.)

Ryan had his head lowered, eyebrows scrunched up as he read the evidence report, his steps sluggish. And for some reason, one that Shane couldn’t explain, he couldn’t take his eyes away from Ryan’s flexed arms. It wasn’t tight, but it did wonders on transparency, and Ryan’s bicep was nearly bulging out of his sleeve.

Gulping, Shane’s leg bounced and he finally looked away, catching Devon’s intrigued gaze. She didn't say a _word_ as Ryan’s chair scraped against the floor. In the dim light of the office (one of which Andrew hadn’t set out to fix,) Shane rolled his eyes (and took another swing of his coffee to make up for his parched throat,) as Ryan sat next to Devon, away from him. 

Ah.

Sure, _sure_ , he had been the _one_ to sit away from him the first time. But that was two month- _ish_ ago and he should be able to see that report too! For input.

Right.

Without thinking about it, Shane wordlessly stood from his chair, ignoring Devon’s glare as she thought that he would leave. (It wasn’t rare for Shane to walk out on a meeting, he would bore himself out during their meetings that he’d _walk_ out.) Not here, all he did was take two steps and pulled out the chair next to Ryan, sitting down with a grin.

Ryan looked up, “what are you doing?”

“I don’t bite, Bergara,” Shane told him, winked and extended his arm, rested behind Ryan's back to see what the report said. Ryan’s hand had been on the table, and he was taken aback that he didn't move, instead, he slid the report to Shane’s side. 

“It’s what we wrote two days ago,” Ryan muttered, “you know that, big head. Come to sit next to me to torment me?”

“Maybe,” Shane’s smile grew, his gaze trailed to the report, eyes skimmed through (his and Ryan’s work) evidence found in the last few weeks, “you know I can’t help it. And what did you find? Did you contact Curly?”

Shane had been whispering next to Ryan’s face, they were in a room with three other people and yet, nobody had looked in their direction. Ryan nodded his head, arms to his side, “I called him last night and described it to him again. Although there _isn’t_ any conclusive evidence, his family and himself think that it's the work of an amateur.”

“What makes them think so?” Shane grabbed a pen from the table, uncapped it and drew a star next to the _evidence_ section of their report. If Ryan had nothing conclusive and veritable assumptions, it was ideal to look back into it at another time. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan answered truthfully, “I think… I haven’t gotten sick or any nightmares since I’ve found three possible hexes. And their energy,” he waved his hands, Ryan exaggerated what he felt inside the girl’s bedrooms, “it was _there_ but not as strong as the exorcisms I’ve been to. I don’t know… what I feel in these places isn’t evidence, I’m not a medium of any means.”

“But you _are_ ,” Shane cajoled, making eye contact with him finally, and then felt the corner of his mouth curve upwards, “hypothetically.”

Ryan glared at him, opened his mouth to reply when they had been interrupted. Not verbally, but Shane knew when he felt eyes on him. Looking up, Shane saw three pairs of eyes looking at Ryan and himself, silent and with a smile on their faces, albeit Andrew who had no interest in whatever was going on. (Devon let out a hushed laugh, and Shane _knew_ he would never hear the end of it later.)

“Are you done?” Steven asked, crossing his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Lunchtime is soon and I’m hungry, I’ll like to finish before.”

Ryan squirmed in his seat, rearranging himself and took the report from Shane’s side, who had cocked his head and twirled the pen in his hand, pointing at Steven with the uncapped end, “you’ve had truffles _once_ and you can’t shut up about it.”

Beside him, his partner let out a breathy laugh, eyes still stuck to the table. Huh, that’s interesting. Now that Shane’s thought about it, Ryan reluctantly looked into the eyes of anybody in the room, was hiding something or was he shy?

Shy… he couldn’t be shy, he’s told Shane off before, he’s stood up in this very room and confidently spoke about the silly, paranormal evidence he found. (And Shane absorbed it. Hypothetically.)

“How was ghost hunting?” Steven teased instead, tapping his fingers together, “bet you had a blast talking to ghosts.”

“Are we feuding right now? I was talking to _air_ ,” Shane replied, “I have to look at this case from all angles, isn’t that right? Ryan?”

The man next to him ignored his and Steven’s conversation—he had a skill in his minuscule brain to _do_ it—although smiling, “don’t bring me into this,” (was code for _we’ll roast him later_ ) and Ryan turned to Devon, “you said you had information for me?”

“I have information for everyone,” she spoke casually, as if Steven and Shane weren’t seconds away from tousling in a cartoonish wrestling ring. “The Roseberry trial concluded this morning. They are to be compensated from the media, _The Sun_ , _Chicago Daily Tribune_ , the list goes on.”

Andrew, who stood by Steven’s side, crossed his arms over his chest, “how much?”

“One million dollars.”

“ _What_?” Ryan exclaimed, his forehead creased as he reached for the documents in Devon’s side. She gave them to him willingly, the second Steven drew out a whistle. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“April Fools isn’t for another couple of months,” Steven chimed in, seemingly impressed that the Roseberrys had won the case. Since July, Steven remained neutral towards all suspects and families of the victims alike. While he sympathized, he refused to cheer for anybody until he knew what the hell was going on.

Now, neither of them knew what the _hell_ was going on.

Ryan turned his head to Shane, eyes narrowed as if to inquire _how long have you known about this? Do you know what this means?_

Shane wanted to sigh, tell him that _yeah_ he _knew_ that he fucked up. Instead, “relax, Devon told me a few minutes ago. I knew this would happen, since you know,” Shane smiled, “we did help them.”

Ryan gaped, his gaze lingered on Shane before his features softened. Shane prepared himself for the usual apology when Ryan muttered to him, “you couldn’t have known what would happen in the future. Besides, it's not them.”

Shane had his favorite line ready to go: _don’t worry about it_ when Ryan’s words registered in his brain. “What?”

“It’s not them,” Ryan echoed, louder for everyone to hear. “The suspect wrote their 'signature' message with their left hand, Roseberrys are right-handed.”

Everybody in the room blinked, frozen in place as Ryan flipped to the page in _their_ document. In the middle of the binder sat a page torn from an unofficial copy of the Roseberry’s testimony. The date marked in August, interrogated twice by Kelsey after Amari's death, while Shane proofread the interrogation in full, he recalled Kelsey asking the surviving family to write a few sentences on camera.

“The Roseberrys said they were both right handed and they had told the truth. _Twice_. I took a picture of the sigils and sent them to my coworker, Curly who has a cousin who is left-handed. I also sent them out to analyze their handwriting and see—”

Ryan, without time to waste, set out the Roseberry’s testimony and the evidence behind the killer being left-handed out on the table. “It’s true. The characters on the wall had indications similar to a person _or_ persons who are left-handed. Curly’s cousin also had these same characteristics. It’s not them. Maybe they _did_ hire somebody in retaliation for their daughters… but evidence suggests that it was done by the same person, there’s unique techniques in their handwriting that couldn’t be mimicked by anyone else.”

Speechless, Shane turned his head and voiced out the conclusion of—not one, but _three_ linguistic experts who indeed believed that their perpetrator was left-handed.

“You’ve done it again, Bergara,” Steven noted, tapping on the wooden table with his fingers, “keep it up and you’ll run Shane out of a job.”

“I don’t work for you,” Shane reminded him, not looking away from the documents. This was a lead, an actual _lead_ that wasn’t an assumption or anything paranormal! By golly, he’s done it. His head moved towards Ryan, smiling widely, “is this why you were late?”

Ryan smiled back, “this is why I was late. Surprise, big guy.”

The warmth of Ryan’s smile had Shane spinning out of control as his heart beat audibly in his chest. He looked away when he heard input from a third party, “it’s not going to answer all of our questions. But we can rethink their involvement with the murder of Parker and Amari.”

“We’re back to square one, _again_ ,” Steven announced, “we have to hold a press conference sooner or later, we can’t continue to push it back further than it already is.”

“And tell them what?” Shane’s mouth curved into a smile as he leaned back on his chair, “the killer is left-handed, a farmer—”

“You don’t know _that_.”

“Inconclusively, a farmer who worships his satanic majesty? We’ll lose any reputation we have left.”

“If we had any to begin with,” Steven’s tone remained monotone, he stood on his chair and turned to the last person Shane wanted to be involved in this chaos. “Ryan Bergara. I think it’s your time to shine.”

“What? Really—”

“ _No_ ,” Shane intervened, before Ryan could do anything else, he jumped from his seat and pointed a finger at Steven, “they will not take him seriously. You have to be _insane._ ”

“He _just_ brought up conclusive evidence. The culprit is left-handed! Wrote words, drew sigils, left clues that tie to satanism. They're not a demon—sorry, Ryan—but could be a human into the occult.”

“They’re still alive,” Ryan defended, “demons can’t be ruled out entirely yet.”

This was going to drive him insane. With what they had evidence-wise was minimal, but Ryan could talk for days on what paranormal activity occurred in the house and make it sound reasonable to a homicide. Surely in the future he’d be a blogger or a journalist, writing up his theories to other believers like him.

Hypothetically, he knew that something was _going on_. And Shane’s gut had told him that the Roseberrys were innocent and this was the act of one person. And if they _were_ a demon, Shane was going to rip them into pieces himself.

“Bergara,” Shane let out a shaky breath, “what do you want to do?”

Ryan’s eyes widened, his hair fell over his forehead and looked at Shane as if he was playing a cruel joke on him. Shane shrugged his shoulders loosely, falling back to his seat and leaned forward on the table.

He intertwined his fingers and looked at Ryan, seriously, “I’m not messing with you, what would you do?”

Shane meant _we_.

And yet, Ryan’s eyes focused on him as he thought. His brain loud at times that Shane almost believed he could read whatever he was sputtering in his head. And maybe he could, because Ryan’s eyebrows scrunched when he opened his mouth.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about you,” Shane muttered to him, watching Ryan blink outwardly, “whatever you say, I’ll be by your side.”

Despite three other coworkers in the room, Ryan sent signals to him that _he_ understood. It left Shane stunned on the spot, he could never admit it out loud but he felt pride in allowing Ryan forget that he was the center of attention, that he wasn’t being judged by him.

So when Ryan rolled his eyes, smiled and said: “I was going to say _sure._ Don’t make this cheesy.” Shane knew that he…

What? He what? Liked Ryan? Sure, he liked Ryan for the person he was and if Ryan came to him as a shoulder to cry on. Well, that was between them.

“I’ll write a formal report,” Devon addressed after Shane stopped looking at Ryan’s side profile, “I’ll include anything that won’t hinder the investigation. It will provoke the media to a degree. It would be the first time you’ll be mentioned, Bergara. Are you ready?”

Ryan sat still, and for once, he didn't frown. “Yes.”

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 1988**   
**Los Angeles, California**

“And you’re sure you’re not in a pyramid scheme?”

“If I were, would I have told you?” Curly laughed, fingers twirled around the vial and hurled it to his customer's open hands. They caught it, it wouldn’t have shattered into pieces if they hadn’t, it was _oil_. 

“What will this do?”

“Purification,” Curly exaggerated, walking away from his customer and bent down to locate the binder Ryan made for him. Not necessarily for _him_ , he knew his shit by memory. His customers didn't. "It's a joke, it's lavender. It'd help you sleep at night."

His customer was a man, a lean, thin man who looked younger than eighteen. He came in after his mother suggested that he’ll find 'paranormal immunity' from Curly. He claimed his hauntings as footsteps during the night and disrupted his slumber, and Curly (thanks to Ryan,) knew it would be best to start out small. Lavender oil is the best Curly could do for now.

The man blinked, trailed his eyes from an antique situated on an altar beside a glass cage to him. Since Ryan left for Illinois, Curly had the chance to tidy up their shop, most of their gifts had been sent by their customers themselves, and respecting their wishes to leave them in the least aesthetically pleasing location was challenging. He left all of his customer’s gifts alone, but his grandmother arrived with _more_ and left with no choice but to make room.

The altar was part of it at least, catching the eye of a lot of his customers recently. 

His customer’s expression wavered, Curly saw his eyes glimmer before he murmured to him. He almost missed it, but Curly had a sixth sense for understanding his customer’s hesitance. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Why would I?” He replied and gave his customer a genuine smile, “I’ve believed in spirits since I was a child, you think _something_ is haunting you.”

“I—It’s a bit far-fetched, isn't it?”

“No, no, not at all," Curly extended his arms, he walked to his customer. He was tall, though, didn't loom over Curly, “if I had the time, I would tell you the stories my aunts and grandmother told me, you’ll know that it’s something I’m used to. Why would I judge you if you came to me with the truth?”

His customer exhaled but kept his words to himself. Curly didn't mind helping anybody younger than him, but he embraced the ambivalence from them. Their energy was new, _fresh_ and spirits would crave to gain their power from someone that was protected by their family members.

(He thinks it’s what drew him to meet Ryan Bergara. His energy had been intense, yet, the man had a twinge of fear circling around him constantly. It triggered his flight-or-fight instincts—mostly flight—that had gotten him away from any dangerous circumstances. He’s never seen Ryan fight.

Maybe that’s why he sent him out of L.A and to something new.)

Tapping his finger on the picture of the oil, his customer dragged his feet and cautiously read the paragraph. It was lavender scented, an oil he could spread over his chest to help him sleep better. He could argue that Wal-Mart was a better alternative, but the boy remained quiet.

He smiled, eyes crinkled as he looked at Curly. “Twice a day? This thing doesn’t have any nutrition facts.”

“ _Are you planning to eat it or what_?” Curly teased in Spanish, “once a day is alright, you—”

“ _Curly_!”

Oh boy.

“Abuela is calling me,” Curly said to his customer, “you might want to hurry.”

His customer gaped like a fish, nodding his head and tilting his head to the entrance of his apartment. “Do you think it's urgent?”

“I don’t think so, last time she called me to help her peel potatoes.”

Which is the truth. 

Most of the time, Curly’s grandmother would bless his apartment in the morning, later she’ll sit and watch television. If anything, she loved to cook for him, making _him_ peel vegetables. Ryan’s presence disappeared two weeks into him being alone, and though her energy had been soothing, he found himself seeking out to learn more about brujería. She had been against showing him dark magic, though, her expertise lied on oils and herbs concoctions.

It was what he grew up to do, so when his customer remained dubious about the lavender scent, Curly switched it to a softer, tamed aroma of chamomile. He was about to tell him about it when his grandmother’s voice echoed in the shop.

“ _Curly! Come! Ryan is on the television_!”

Curly froze, his mouth fell open as his brain rephrased the words his grandmother had told him.

Ryan—Ryan was on the television? Oh fuck, Ryan was on public television.

“That's chamomile oil. I’ve got to run,” Curly ran to the backdoor, moving aside the baseball bat and used most of his energy to open it. Careful not to knock anything off one of the altars, he motioned to his customer towards the door. Daylight peered into the shop as the boy scrambled for his wallet. “No, no, I don’t take any money, if you run out, come back if you like and I’ll give you a refill.”

“You don’t—?”

“ _Curly_!”

“I’ll explain another time, here,” Curly handed the boy a corkscrew, and it confused him more than he already was. Still, his customer walked outside, looking at the vial inquisitively. “Make sure to keep it out of the sun!”

That last part wasn’t true, but this boy needed to get home without an _oil_ distracting him. Once his customer left, Curly shut the door, turned the lights off and stepped over to his apartment.

His grandmother had moved in with him while Ryan was out ghost hunting. And honestly, had it been an eventful couple of months of questions from Ryan’s end that had never found public eye. In fact, Ryan’s team of investigators had kept their findings to themselves. 

The thought of Ryan on public television scared him, so, he ran as fast as he could, finding his grandmother on their kitchen table, holding up her greasy fingers from kneading dough and pointed at the television.

The screen was grainy, shots of static around the corners of the visual, and Ryan knew how to _fix_ it better than him. But today, Ryan couldn’t because _he was on television._

“ _Oh,_ hermoso _,_ ” Curly cooed absentmindedly, pulling out the chair next to his grandmother as she peered in awe. 

Ryan had always been attractive, a pleasing sight for anybody’s eyes. Today, he had dressed up sharp, his hair gelled to his right side and away from his face. He wore a white shirt underneath a navy blazer, following the finishing touch of mauve accent sticking out from his blazer pocket. 

Curly’s seen him serious before, crossing his arms over his chest where he flaunted his muscles through the sleeves of his shirt. He looked imitating, a man comfortable in his surroundings.

This was so strange to see. 

Ryan was always an anxious boy, he dodged anything that could harm him or his family, and kept to himself most of the time. And now he was there, standing next to a woman shorter than him. Recognizing her as Devon Joralmon, Curly watched as she glanced at him before turning back to her partner. 

“Que es?” Curly’s grandmother asked in Spanish, busied herself with separating the dough on his kitchen table. 

Curly watched another man speak, since the television had pitiful quality overall, his words had been muffled to high heaven. Though, he pointed at a bulletin board with photos with what Curly could see as evidence. Immediately recognizing what Ryan had described to him, Curly’s eyes widened.

“They're talking about what Ryan found.”

His grandmother kept her silence, though, her attention diverted from the television and Curly heard the sound of her cutting the dough in half with a utensil. She hadn’t been interested in the homicide case, still, she helped whenever Ryan called with questions. But Curly knew that she wanted Ryan away from diving into something that he couldn’t save himself from. 

They talked through the evidence, and from what Curly could understand from lousy reception was that _Ryan Bergara investigated our case and concluded that necromancy had been linked to the murder of the Roseberry sisters, Susan Parker and Daniel Amari_.

Curly never wanted Ryan home more than at that moment. 

The reaction was expected and _loud_. It was immediate enough to shake the cameramen, yet, Steven Lim remained unfazed by any of it. Because the explosion in the room had been so rough, his field of vision of Ryan was limited. The public never took their beliefs seriously, and mistook their practices as one in the same. Although he couldn’t speak for his roommate, he wanted desperately to be there for him.

Journalists and reporters talked over each other, nobody left room to debate or for questions to be answered. It took a toll on the crew in front of them and Steven Lim looked seconds away from slamming his imaginary gravel to the podium. 

“ _Why is it so loud_?” Curly’s grandmother wondered unexpectedly, her tone annoyed. She must have heard the commotion through the low volume and assumed that her grandson changed the channel. 

Curly was speechless, in a state of shock and anguish that he _hated_. He’s seen press conferences before. _But with Ryan_. 

His worry lay on the sole truth that Ryan was _there_ , standing before a crowd of skeptical journalists and a camera that showed the world that Ryan Bergara was hunting ghosts and _not_ a human killer. Steven Lim argued that the assailant could have used other means to kill their victims, but once the word _satanic_ was reiterated through the speakers, Curly exhaled and covered his eyes with his palms. 

He was on the edge of tears, he swore it. And most of his sorrow was directed to the man that he adored and loved, someone that he couldn’t physically comfort when this conference was over. And—

Suddenly, the commotion ended. He knew it was happening, but the cameraman’s view turned to view Ryan’s figure. He was still standing there, his eyes moved as if he was memorizing every face in the room. The expression—the expression on Ryan’s face was one that he’s seen before, _once_.

When he was confident in his words and spoke with a voice that boomed in the room. When he smiled, or laughed, or made a joke to ease the tension, he was friendly—naive to make friends out of a stranger he'd just met. Ryan's confidence thrived when he fought for his role in the Queen Mary case, where his footage was taken out of context and he demanded that he’d explain what he believed in. 

Here, he was sure and _afraid_. 

And yet, it wasn’t what caught Curly’s eye. 

He knew the attention was directed at Steven Lim as he concluded his speech for now, the questions unbearable and knowing that even Ryan had a limit to hear or answer them. No, it was Devon’s way of stopping herself from smiling from ear to ear. 

Curly saw Ryan, next to him was a man that was shown to him months ago. 

Shane Madej grew a beard in that time, his stance tall and thinner, yet, he draped over Ryan. He dressed well, he wasn’t shoved with security and instead stood out as the stereotypical investigator. With his tucked button down and black pants, he refused to slump in posture. Their difference in height showed that it was possible to hide something that the media wouldn’t catch. 

Mr. Madej moved for a split moment, where his arm was exposed so Curly could see clearly. It was true.

Shane was holding Ryan’s hand. 

The man—he was actually holding his boy's hand.

Ryan’s eyes slipped closed and he looked down at his shoes, moving his head to the side to see Shane’s arm and finally, his face. He tried to keep a straight face, but Curly could _feel_ that Shane Madej had squeezed his hand to get his attention.

What Curly didn't know was how _long_ it was happening. (He ignored how he’ll curse Ryan out for not telling him that he was _really good friends_ with Shane Madej himself.)

The conference was over before Curly knew it and his mouth curled up into a grin as Devon Joralmon raised her hand to her mouth, her body trembled with laughter and tried to walk in front of who he considered his best friend and _his_ friend. 

“What happened?” His grandmother repeated, she stopped kneading her dough, now resting on a bowl. She wiped her hands with a towelette and lifted an eyebrow at Curly. “Ya se fueron? Y Ryan?”

“Yeah,” Curly sniffed, he hadn’t cried, but tears glimmered in his eyes at the thought of seeing Ryan again. He would wait by the phone all night if he had to just to ask how he was and what he was _thinking_. 

Except…

“Don’t worry, Ryan is not alone,” he told her, standing from his seat and reached for the remote to change it from the static off-air screen. 

_I don’t think Shane Madej would let that happen,_ was left unsaid.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 1988**   
**Chicago, Illinois**

Twirling the telephone wire through the gaps of his hand, Ryan tapped his foot against the floor impatiently. It’s a virtue, _waiting_. If a man stood dutifully for the phone to connect to a living room miles away from him, he’d get a reward. Ryan thought it was ridiculous to do the bare-minimum, but that’s not exactly what he should be concerned about now.

He stood beside the telephone at the office, shoulder pressed to the brick wall, and waited. He’s been trying to reach his home phone for twenty minutes now, and still, all that he was praised with was the _sweet_ sound of a voicemail. By the sixth ring, Ryan thought to give up when he heard the sound that almost reduced him to tears.

“ _Hello_?”

“Jake!” He shouted, dropping the wire instantly and lowering his voice. He knew that nobody around him would eavesdrop on his conversation, at least, Shane wouldn’t let them. “Jake, buddy. It’s about time you answered the phone.”

“ _Ryan_?” His brother’s tone surprised, the other side of the line grew quiet before Jake replied, “ _Ryan, as in Ryan Bergara_? _Geez, what did we do to have a celebrity call our residence at this hour_?”

Ryan tittered, coughed because he didn't want his younger brother to _know_ he laughed at his dumb joke and it was hardly four in the afternoon in Los Angeles. “Nice to speak to you, too. Are—”

Are things alright at home? How are Mom and Dad? 

A sigh escaped him before he could think about it, he closed his eyes and pressed the end of the telephone to his temple. He trembled, his hands refused to cease their motion and the phone just about fell from his grip. Could it have been from the raw adrenaline of nobody answering the phone back home? Or could it have been that he had been on televisions?

He didn't know, and his brother caught on: “ _Hello_? _Ryan_?”

Please tell me something _good_ , anything. 

He let out a harsh breath before speaking into the receiver, “how are you, bud?” Ryan rephrased, “causing trouble?”

“ _Not as much without you here_ ,” Jake said mockingly, it had been something truthfully unrealistic since Ryan hadn’t lived in his parent’s house for years. Still, he loved his brother and his family, he never wasted an opportunity to visit them. Living away from his younger brother had it’s tribulations as he was his _only_ brother and he had risked everything for him.

So when Jake changed the topic to his application for UC, Ryan listened. In moments like this, where Ryan could _hear_ the bubbling excitement in Jake’s voice, how Ryan could practically see his fond look and how he wished that he could leave sooner than later.

“That’s great—wait, they did what?”

“ _Accepted me on the spot_!” Jake’s voice boomed over the receiver, loud enough to make Ryan cringe and remove it from his ear. By doing so, he heard the distant sounds of footsteps by the corridor. It startled him, until he realized that his brother is going to _college._

“That’s—you’re leaving this next year? Are you serious? That’s amazing!”

“ _Next year_?” Jake’s voice softened, “ _I’m moving out in three days, Ryan. It’s a… bit sudden. But they recommended classes for me to start later this month. I was going to tell you_ — _I was.”_

Ryan’s smile faded, “I—”

What could he say to _that_? How the—how the hell was he in Chicago when his baby brother was leaving for college in two days? 

“I—I’ll get a flight in the morning, I’ll be down there—”

“ _No,_ _no,_ ” Jake denied as Ryan heard the shuffle on the other line and Jake’s words didn't reach Ryan’s ears. It had been obvious it was Ryan’s father who asked him what he was doing. Something that could have taken seconds lingered into a minute and Ryan exhaled through his nose.

He was happy, relaxed even, debating to speak to Kelsey about a trip to—he turned around, phone pressed to his right ear and met face-to-face with a clothed chest. 

Of course.

Ryan let out a gasp, nearly a _squeak_ as his eyes trailed to the invader of his privacy. “You—” 

Suddenly, almost as he had turned before, Ryan found himself tangled in the mess of a wire from the telephone. The black cord wrapped around his bicep, his chest and he was restricted to accuse Shane of eavesdropping on him. 

_Shane Madej_ found this hilarious and he smirked, eyes crinkled as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “Before you skin me alive. I just got here, I swear. I kept my boy scout promise to give you privacy.”

Funny enough, Ryan trusted him and turned back around to untangle himself from the telephone cord. In the process of literally almost becoming one with an object, Jake’s voice returned from the other line.

“ _Hey Ryan, could we talk later_? _I’ve got to pick up mom from the grocery store._ ” Ryan was about to open his mouth to tell him that he thought about it (for a minute and a half) and concluded that he _will_ be returning to Los Angeles before Jake continued, “ _if you think about coming to L.A, I’ll talk to Shane Madej personally to keep you there. I’ll call you tonight._ ”

“Jake—” Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed as his brother had the privilege to actually hang up on him. Well, at least he spared him _that_ conversation with Kelsey (who wouldn’t let him leave Chicago.)

“Jake?”

“What happened to my protection and privacy? _My terms_.”

Shane clicked his tongue and cocked his stupid head, “you’re not in any danger, Bergara. Besides,” Shane spread out his arms wide, “I wasn’t lying when I said I didn't hear anything. You _did_ say _‘Jake’_ when I was right behind you, honey.”

“Alright, we need to lay off on the pet names,” Ryan lifted his hand, regardless that his smile contradicted his statement. “It’s my brother, he’s going to college in a couple of days.”

“Really? Isn’t he a smart one,” Shane said in a chiding tone, although he knew that his partner was plenty smart. And as Shane worked the wheels in his brain, he whistled, “you wish to go home for a bit of family bonding?”

“It’s impossible, isn’t it?” Ryan crinkled his face and leant back on the brick wall, his eyes traveled heavenward. _With all the attention on me_ , _they’ll find my family if I go to them_.

It wasn’t said, hardly a word uttered by Ryan, and still, as his eyes found Shane’s, he saw a gleam of sympathy from him. It was a _sorry, it can’t happen even when you want to leave soon_.

And that was the thing. Did Ryan was to leave sooner than later?

Sure, going into a homicide case blindly had sealed his fate for the next _decade_ at most. He didn't think about how long it would take or how many holidays he’ll miss; not until Jake told him something that he’s been waiting for his entire life. The chance to have a degree, to get a job and be free of the endless cycle of poverty. 

He wished for the day that his parents would agree to take Jake up for his offer. It was happening and Ryan wasn’t there to walk Jake to school like he always had as children. 

“They grow up fast,” Shane’s words startled him and as a cue to Ryan that he wouldn’t speak further on this topic, Shane pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders and… decided to stand by him. 

Well. This was awkward.

Should he say something? Shouldn’t he have said something back in the conference room? Where Ryan was minutes away from pissing his pants when Shane did the unthinkable and _held his hand_. And he kept holding it, out of the room and into the hallway Ryan was in currently, holding onto the promise that he could speak to whoever he wanted and compose himself.

As strange as it was, Ryan didn't mind his hand holding another. But this was _Shane Madej_. A skeptic and a man that opposed everything that he’s brought to the table with a grin on his face and a _scientific_ fact. 

Just…

He didn't know. How do you talk about something like that out of nowhere?

_Hey, thanks for holding my hand at my time of need? You didn't need to!_

And it brings him back to his real dilemma, how soon does he want to leave?

Ryan couldn’t help his eyes from looking at Shane, except, he had been staring straight at him. He looked, well, normal, if anything, less rugged than he did this morning.

Shane’s shirt had been one that he wore in a different conference, and yet, how sure was Ryan that it _wasn’t_ the same shirt he’s seen him in? That wasn’t what caught his attention, Shane’s hair, as messy as it is, fell to his forehead. Making his appearance younger than usual, this man… he _was_ handsome and Ryan wasn’t afraid to admit it.

“Are you ready to play house?” Shane’s mouth turned upward, breath near Ryan’s face as he spoke, “at the very least, pretend to be my fiancé for the evening, my love?”

It stopped as soon as it began, Ryan’s face grew crimson, ears hot and took back all of his previous compliments. “I hate you with every fiber of my being,” out of all the things he could have said, it was the best thing Ryan could think to say out-loud. “But yes, sure, whatever. Free food, free entertainment.”

“Does our engagement mean nothing to you?”

Ryan is sure in other circumstances—one where, god forbid, another universe where Shane and himself decided to tie the knot, get hitched if you will—he could understand that Shane’s words would bring an angsty argument between the two. A lengthy _no, I love you but you need to back off!_ Or _our engagement means the world to me, but you’re being an asshole right now_.

He couldn’t say any of that. Considering, he isn’t engaged to this man. Instead: “my dad always told me that he would make sure mom had been healthy and fed. If you think I won’t ask for food from _you_ after we wed, then I don’t know what to tell you, big guy.”

Ryan lifted his hands up, shrugging as if he made a solid point. It left Shane speechless, stepping away from the brick wall and turned to Ryan in quiet amazement before letting out a single breath. (Ryan wasn’t a psychic but he knew Shane wanted to throttle him.)

“Okay,” Shane drawled, he sounded exhausted from the word alone, “if I had known you were taking this seriously, I would have asked for your hand in marriage months ago.”

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Ryan crossed his arms over his chest and opened his mouth to reply to Shane before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he whirled around to find the assailant to be Steven Lim himself. 

“I really hope I’m not interrupting something,” Steven lifted his hand, then, brought attention to a slip of paper in his hands. He looked at Ryan momentarily before handing the paper to Shane, who unknowingly took it. “One of yours quit, this is his resignation letter.”

“What?” Ryan barked, “who?”

Steven shook his head, “not allowed to disclose information. He gave me this on late notice.”

“Couldn’t it have killed him to write it out on an _actual_ piece of paper?” Shane scolded dryly and waved the paper to make his point across. Ryan had seen Steven pass it around in front of him, however, the longer he stared, he realized that it was a napkin.

Steven shrugged, “doesn’t seem to care. He packed his things before I could tell him that you’ll _need_ an actual resignation. It’s just that—” Steven’s eyes trailed back to Ryan again, eyes softening as his actions spoke louder than whatever he wanted to say. Ah, he quit because of Ryan.

“Asshole couldn’t give me a _logical_ reason?” As if quitting because Ryan was on the case wasn’t fair. Still, Shane’s words held their hostility towards this employee and whatever that was written on the napkin disappeared within seconds as he ripped it in two. A piece of it, one that made absolutely no sense, landed by Ryan’s shoe and he picked it up.

And, listen—Ryan had a few seconds to think about _that_ and Steven’s warnings before he felt Shane walk past him and towards what he would assume was said employee’s office. Steven let out a chided _Shane!_ in his direction, but his words were left unheard and Ryan jogged to the stubborn idiot.

Ryan wasn’t afraid of Shane, _ever_. Even at some moments since they met, Shane had ignored him and taunted him.

But Ryan would be afraid of his life if he were this particular employee. 

He wasn’t sure what led him to get involved, but the moment he saw the employee in person, a man of a wide build, he feared for _Shane’s_ life. Hot-headed Shane stumbled into the office, hissed his words with such rage that Ryan _really_ wished to read the napkin’s words before he had ripped it in half.

Yet, the _second_ he stepped into the office to stop Shane like the moral compass he was, he understood why Shane was indignant. The atmosphere reeked of ignorance, strong enough to make Ryan nauseous on the spot. It felt almost as if he stepped remotely out the door, he could feel the energy of the room fill his brain with nonsense. He didn't like it, he _hated_ it. 

Unfortunately, he dealt with it before.

The man's aura sucked, to put it bluntly. A blockade in Ryan’s life that he desperately tried to reason with. And this man, he was a _barrier_ of some kind. Energy aside, the man was huge, his shirt bursting at the seams and forehead covered by his thin brown hair. He was brawny and had the structure of a man that would pick a fight with Ryan at a bar. 

He took one long look at the man before he found himself standing next to Shane. At least his skeptic had a decent aura to him. 

“What’s with him?” And his voice, _god_ , he wanted to get the fuck out of there. 

“You are not allowed to speak ill to him _or_ about him. Do you understand?” Shane remarked calmly, “if you wish to resign, which, by this point, I would have _fired_ you for discrimination in the workplace. You have to file a _legal_ and decent resignation letter without the mention of my partner's nationality.”

Stunned, Ryan looked over to the man. He wasn't keen to know what this man wrote about him, as it had brought out ignorance. But he trusted Shane and he didn't want a complicated argument to occur here where Shane could be snapped in two. _Especially_ where _they_ could be—

Thoughts were interrupted as the man’s expression reeled from one of disinterestedness to anger and his skepticism (on top of being an asshole) shone through. The energy was unbearable and Ryan had to hold Shane back from anything this man could (and would) do. It wasn’t long before the man opened his mouth and directed his hostility. Not towards him. To Shane.

Repeating such hatred would have gotten him a slap in the face from his mother and stern words from his father. By the looks of it, Shane’s face remained stoic, absorbing the words that he would have endured in his years as a detective. 

And, Ryan couldn’t be sure what exactly _clicked_ in his brain. Everything had been loud enough to trigger him to a state of shock, but this ex-employee’s words hurt _Ryan_ enough to push him back from thinking that taking this case was a good idea. He didn't know what happened in-between but other coworkers held this man back as he unveiled his wrath at Shane. 

Still Shane. Nothing from him, this man taking in the punches willingly. 

_Anything but you_.

No, that’s not right. Shane shouldn’t be dealing with this. It wasn’t his fault people hated who Ryan was and what he believed to be real or not. He didn't deserve to be criticized for who he is.

And if you asked Ryan if he would take the defense for Shane Madej, a detective whose reputation flourished on homicidal cases and who insulted Ryan endlessly before reaching out to him _hypothetically_ , he would call you insane. He didn't have time to think about it, the aura was intense already but the fuse short-circuited as this ex-employee reached to grab Shane to hit him.

Living in Los Angeles wasn’t all bad, the amount of punches to the face Ryan had received lingered at about a solid zero _._ Practically, nobody would steal from their shop or apartment if they knew that Ryan _could_ beat their ass. And he could and would.

So, Ryan shoved the ex-employee away from Shane, reached for the collar on their shirt and pulled back his arm. Ryan watched it in slow-motion, his fist collided with the side of their face. He stumbled backwards as Ryan stared at him, pride swelling up that he could even make a man built as he was dazed with a punch alone. 

Nothing was said, Ryan winced, flicking his hand to ease the ache from his knuckles and pointed at the man. His face baffled, covering his face with his hands, blood poured between his fingers as his forehead creased. He didn't think to fight back, holding himself upward with the wall and stared at Ryan. 

“A resignation letter,” Ryan repeated Shane’s words, " _legal_ and well-written. Or I’ll throw your ass in court for the attempted assault on Eugene Yang’s employee.” He didn't think to mention that Shane wasn’t an employee. His thoughts roamed a million miles per second as he bent to reach for the fallen napkin from before, inked in pen from the ex-employee he punched.

“On a piece of paper,” Ryan rectified, almost as if he were speaking to his friend, holding up the napkin to the man to take. Ryan’s own hand had bruised, he somehow managed to cut slice open three of his knuckles. It fucking _stung_ but he watched as the man, quivering, take his own napkin from before to cover his mouth. "Try to leave me out of it this time, or there'd be more where that came from bud."

For the first time, Ryan turned to Shane, taking in the equally stunned expression. Behind him, Kelsey walked in the room, her heels clicked on the office floor before lifting her head up. “There you are! You—”

She stopped, her mouth opened as she gaped at the sight before her. She might have reached the realization that Ryan had punched a man in the face before she _moved_. Ordering her coworkers to return to their desks and walk past Ryan to grab the ex-employee, telling _him_ to get cleaned up. 

“What the fuck did you do?”

Ryan was still in shock, watching the man walk away with his head lifted upwards. Unaware he was actually staring, but if he dared to try to hurt Shane again, he would accept another couple of bruises. 

“I punched him,” Ryan recalled and Kelsey groaned vehemently, covering her eyes with her hands, “he tried to hurt Shane, I swear.”

“And that _justifies_ it?”

_Yes_!

“Maybe…?” Ryan uttered out, flinching when Kelsey groaned _again_ , stomping her heel on the floor. Ryan hissed as his knuckles scraped the side of his pants but he didn't think about it too much. Shane brought attention to it, enough to remind Ryan that he had been behind him all this time. 

His hand reached for Ryan’s right, cupping his fingers gently and looked at the wound, “you okay?”

The way Shane held his hand startled Ryan, but he recovered and nodded his head as if to convince himself that it _didn't_ hurt like a bitch. Which, in his defense, did not. “Yeah. Are you?”

Shane opened his mouth, letting out a sigh of resignation before Kelsey interrupted his reply with a hasty look towards Ryan. She pulled on Ryan’s arm, avoiding his hand and straightened him up and _away_ from Shane Madej. At least she didn't call security on him, Ryan getting arrested _now_ after publicizing his evidence to the world would have been a slap in the face for their department.

Standing away from Shane was uncanny, it wasn’t like Ryan couldn’t breathe without Shane being at his side twenty-four-seven, the man had his space and privacy after all. Though, he wouldn’t have rejected the idea of Shane comforting him. 

...

...

...

...Wait.

What was he thinking?

He just _punched a man_!

“Oh god,” Ryan croaked, eyes grew wide as reality slipped on her big girl shoes and kicked him right in the ass. He motioned to his bleeding, throbbing hand, lifting it up to his face and spun it around to actually process the damage. Not as bad as he thought, his knuckles sliced open as blood poured out profusely. “I punched a man.”

“Seems like he’s waking up from his fever dream,” Kelsey joked dryly, “come on Bergara, we’ll get you some ice for that.”

She pulled on his arm to further move him to what he would assume to be the lounge area of the office. He remained still, unknowingly grounded his feet and looked at her, “what about that guy? Will I be charged with assault?”

“You said he was going to hurt Shane,” Kelsey pointed out, tugging on his sleeve, “that’s a felony. You punched him in self-defense.”

Kelsey sounded unsure if that _was_ what happened. It did, Ryan was definitely there and he knew what he saw. He had his faith in her, trusting that he wouldn’t be thrown in a freezing jail cell for twenty-four hours. 

Kelsey patiently waited for Ryan to follow, bided time for Ryan to overthink the scenario in his head and clean up his _fucking_ wound. He didn't take a step, instead, he took one back and looked behind his shoulder to Shane. He stood there, defeated and uncertain of his next move.

Then again, he could be keeping his distance just in case Ryan goes feral and punches _him_ in the face. 

Ryan frowned, he didn't like the idea of Shane being injured. Though, he didn't understand exactly why. 

Without time to contemplate it, static filled the hallway before turning into a working voice. Almost like Ryan’s equipment, Kelsey’s radio phoned in and spoke in encrypted code that Ryan would have to ask Shane later about. Yet, he didn't need to because Kelsey let him go and replied to the person on the other side. 

“I’ve got a situation on my hands already,” Kelsey said, looking at Ryan from the corner of her eye, “I told you to escort the man out of here yourself—”

“I’ll take Ryan to get some ice for his hand,” instantly, Shane stepped forward to Ryan’s side, placing his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and loomed over him. He was warm. “He and I are heading out together anyway, I’ll make sure to take him back to his hotel room.” 

Obviously, Kelsey didn't hesitate to think about it. She trailed her eyes from Shane to Ryan before lifting up two fingers and gesticulated to the both of them to _get_ out of there and not cause any more trouble that would land the both of them in prison. (Given that Ryan could be sued with assault and Shane charged with robbery.)

Shane followed up with his promise and walked Ryan into the lounge. As Ryan sat on the brown couch, he dejectedly stared at his hand and placed it on his lap. The silence was unpleasant and Ryan wished that Shane would _speak_ or swear at him for doing something so idiotic. 

But, all he felt was the frigid sensation of an ice-pack wrapped with a paper towel on his knuckles. He gasped and held onto the ice-pack, unaware that Shane had been holding it too. Ryan’s hand brushed over Shane’s for a moment before Shane motioned for him to let it go. 

“Don’t touch it,” Shane murmured, voice soft. “It’ll hurt because you’ll press on the wound too hard.” 

Not the best situation Ryan’s found himself in. At any rate, one that he’s found himself in this _week_. He gritted his teeth to contain a snivel as Shane adjusted himself to sit next to him and hold his injured hand. He held it up, commenting that it helped with blood circulation or something before he finally looked at Ryan.

“You are insane,” Shane said contemptuously, “absolutely out of your mind. What if he wanted to _hug_ me or something?”

Ryan blinked, “you can’t be serious. He was yelling at you. Do you really think he wanted to give you a nice pat on the shoulder?”

He knew Shane was teasing him, however, he flinched when Shane squeezed his hand. “No.”

“So what’s the verdict, chief? Will I be going to jail?”

Shane sighed, accepting that Ryan might actually be crazy and he’ll have to throw him into an asylum and never hear from him again. “Thank you.”

“Well—wait what?”

“Thank you,” Shane echoed, “for standing up against him. You are the definition of a _knight in shining armor_.”

“It was a punch, Shane,” Ryan emphasized because well, it was the truth. He didn't _save_ anybody, if anything, all he got from punching a man was an injury that stung like a bitch and one pissed-off Kelsey. “I didn't do anything.”

Shane moved the ice-pack, gently swept over Ryan’s knuckles before settling on a spot that he knew wouldn’t hurt as bad. He kept his head down, eyes peeled to the wrapped paper towel. “Ryan, just... thank you.”

Speechless, Ryan forced himself not to foolishly smile at that. He couldn’t be proud of something that was overdue. He felt remorseful for Shane, for all the right reasons. This man, who had hated anything that Ryan’s ever loved, had _nobody_ at his side. He was ultimately alone.

“Besides, what a way to ruin my handsome face!” Shane added with blooming excitement as if what he said was said out of a deity's mouth. "Thanks pal, you really did me a good one! The craziest thing you’ve done.”

Ryan hated him. 

“It’s not the _zaniest_ thing I’ve done,” Ryan grumbled, “I’m marrying you, aren’t I?”

A laugh erupted between them, Shane’s eyes squinted as he looked up at Ryan. With a giggle out of his mouth, he managed to utter out: “did you say zany?”

“Look at me, expanding my vocabulary.”

“Alright, you’ve had enough of this,” pulling away the ice-pack, Shane stood from the couch and walked to the corner of the lounge. 

Ryan had been unfamiliar to this place since he wasn’t exactly supposed to talk to anybody else about the case except for his team and Shane. His lounge was back in his hotel room where he could comfortably watch television and wait for anybody Kelsey trusted to bring his food up. 

Shane closed the shelf from the make-shift kitchen and returned to Ryan’s side with a first-aid kit in hand. “We better hurry," Shane held the kit with one hand and looked at his watch, "Garrett would be waiting for us in two hours and you are covered in your own blood.”

Right, the _real_ reason as to why they’re leaving together. In a matter of weeks, Garrett and Shane reconnected during their free-time, usually bringing Ryan along since the whole ‘ _Ryan is my fiancé_ ’ tactic was never brought back up and they all assumed that everyone was alright with it. Ryan knew Garrett didn't buy it, Shane however, remained oblivious.

It was fun, enjoyable. Ryan liked Garrett, he was hilarious to be around with and he had loads of embarrassing stories about Shane in college that Ryan lapped up happily. Apart from genuinely liking Shane’s friend, Garrett was dating Susan Parker’s cousin, Lydia Nguyen. She was his age and the only one in her family to still have been in contact with Susan.

Her sudden disappearance had been expected as she traveled to be with family and friends when Susan’s body had been identified. Kelsey hadn’t gotten a lot out of her, but the photo in which Garrett posed with her and Susan _and_ the Roseberrys was enough to have them all involved and answer the question: _how did they know each other_?

“Am I really showing up with a bloody hand to a restaurant? What would I say if Lydia asks?”

“Who cares?” Shane shrugged, “our real issue is if Garrett or Lydia watched the press conference, then our engagement would be useless.”

Ryan didn't have the heart to tell Shane that Garrett knew all this time. “I’m sure that they didn't. Susan was part of their life.”

“We can’t be sure, Bergara,” Shane draped the gauge from the first-aid kit around Ryan’s knuckles, delicately as if to avoid the injury from bleeding again. Bruising would be expected and Ryan prepared himself for weeks of purpleish discoloration on his right hand. “If they ask, you burned yourself cooking for us.”

Well, that was no fun.

The drive to their reserved double-date was nothing but a blur. After Shane had brought in clothes for Ryan, he had rushed him by threatening him to _leave_ him at the office. Ryan was hungry—starving—enough to shrug off the disgusting piece of fabric that stuck to the dried blood on his dress shirt. 

He didn't bother to ask what car Shane had ‘borrowed’ before they left as he loosened the sleeve of his blazer over Shane’s oversized shirt. His wound didn't hurt, the throbbing pain from earlier faded with aspirin now replaced by an uncomfortable itch.

He tried his best not to mess with the gauge around his knuckles, yet, he didn't bother to stop himself from scratching his wound. He could blame it on the undying anxiety bubbling up in him. Shane’s words circled in his mind and left him to think _what if Garrett and Lydia saw the press conference_? _What would they say about this… amateur paranormal investigator claiming that the killer wasn’t a human_?

Ryan’s eyes trailed from the window of the _Honda_ Shane drove, slowly he wandered from the dashboard to Shane’s hands around the steering wheel. 

_Would they discredit anything Shane says_?

Shane had interesting theories and could solve this on his own. Not to mention that Garrett was his friend, he liked this guy and had been happy to speak to him _like_ one. 

Ryan wasn’t there to destroy careers. He wanted to desperately help in any way that he could. But, his words aren’t concrete.

He didn't know if supernatural entities—especially one as powerful as a demon—roamed in their world. In the end, Ryan wouldn't be able to live with himself if he knew that Shane’s reputation would be crushed because of him.

Maybe he could tell everyone that it was his fault? That he thought he felt off in Mary's room and his equipment was a fallacy.

“Hey, are you okay?” Shane’s words rang through the silence of their car ride, Ryan heard the _click_ of a seatbelt before he realized that they had stopped moving. “I said we’re here. I don’t think Garrett is.”

Where did he go just now? Ryan felt disoriented enough to nod along to Shane and nearly launched himself out of the car. Almost tripped into the pavement, Ryan held onto the platinum black car door with his injured hand.

His hand tightened around the passenger door as he held himself up and he gasped as he felt his wound re-open beneath the gauge. It fucking _stung_ and he held back a howl of pain before Shane reached for him.

“Whoa—what happened?” Hands held his side upwards while Shane inspected Ryan’s chest, “please tell me you haven’t been shot.”

“W—what? No,” Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed, unable to respond properly to _that_ and instead lifted his hand to Shane. It hadn’t been bad in the first place, the wound, but Ryan saw firsthand how bad it could have been.

The gauge was lathered in his blood, spots became more potent as he stood there holding it up. What happened? He couldn’t have this much of an injury from scraping a man’s tooth with his knuckles.

“What the hell? _Fuck_ , Bergara what did you do!” No longer holding his hand up, Ryan blinked as Shane took his elbow in one hand and tossed the keys of the stolen _Honda_ to a man beside him. 

They have valet parking?

He must have thought out-loud because Shane glared at him, holding his actively bleeding hand away from the both of them. It was a lost cause, Shane’s blazer was a mess in itself from Ryan’s bloody gauge. He couldn’t take the blame completely, Shane didn't bandage him well!

“Come on,” softly, Shane whispered to him and dragged him inside of the restaurant. Dim lights illuminated the gorgeous interior, high ceilings that… looked a bit blurry. Funny, was there always two of Shane?

“Move it!” Shane was also very aggressive today, had he always been like that? Despite Ryan wanting to close his eyes, he kept them open and watched as Shane spoke to a lady behind the counter. She looked intimidated at first but one look at their intertwined hands, she held up a hand and disappeared. Ryan didn't care, he was holding Shane’s hand again.

Warmer now than it had been earlier, he discarded how unsanitary it was for Shane to hold his bloody hand and—suddenly, he was hit with something being shoved in his mouth.

Ryan widened his eyes, recognized the texture as bread and chewed. He murmured over the delicacy placed in his mouth and finally realized that it had been Shane that’s force feeding him.

What was going on? Ryan wasn’t sure. He focused on eating _something_ as Shane did whatever Shane does. 

“Here you go sir, bathroom is down the hall to the right,” a voice interrupted Ryan’s thoughts and before he’s up again. Shoving the rest of the bread into his mouth, Ryan’s eyes focused on the detail of a bathroom door before being exposed to fluorescent lights. He grimaced, closing his eyes in an effort to get used to them, but couldn’t let them remain closed before Shane shook him back to reality.

“If you pass out in the bathroom, I’ll leave you here Bergara.” 

Shane would. But true to his promise to Kelsey, he wouldn’t let anything happen to him. 

“You woul’n’t,” is what Ryan wanted to say, the bread he had in his mouth slurred his words. Shane pressed him against the sink of the men’s bathroom and leant back for a moment.

“I didn't notice how dehydrated and hungry you were, I’m sorry.”

With a raise of his eyebrows, Ryan gave him a grin. He knew that maybe in a better condition, he would have reacted differently. Shane probably knew this too. He, with his long ass legs, walked closer to Ryan and grabbed a water bottle from the counter. He uncapped it, “drink it. All of it. I’m going to check on your wound.”

Ryan did as he was told, smacking his lips together. “Am I bleeding to death?” Because Shane would know, he was an investigator.

Shocked, Shane turned to him and fixed the sleeves of his blazer. With his hand covered in dried blood, he ran warm water over to scrub it off. “No, what do you think this is? You re-opened your wound.”

“I feel dizzy.”

“You haven’t eaten anything in almost two days.”

The water stopped, “I was too busy to eat.”

“And now you’re facing the consequences, let me see.” 

Unbeknownst to him, Ryan kept drinking his water bottle steadily and let Shane pick up his right hand daintily. With his clean hands, Shane’s face formed into a grimace as he pulled back the gauge. 

Ryan exhaled, creasing his forehead and finally realized that his wound wasn’t causing his disorientation. His knuckles were stained in his blood, the initial wound had reopened and stretched out from the intensity of Ryan’s grip. Ironic, it was his strength that hurt him the most.

His hand was bruised, fingers swollen and covered in a purple hue. He didn't think it was broken, not necessarily, besides Shane wouldn’t be bandaging him in a restaurant bathroom if it was. (He really hoped Shane knew that.)

“Good lord,” Shane winced as if the wound was his own, “we should get you to the hospital to get it checked out.”

“No, we have to meet with Garrett.”

The lingering touch on Ryan’s hand disappeared and Shane scoffed. “You can’t be serious. I’m not a doctor, Bergara, I won't be able to stitch your—”

“I’ll do it—”

“You’re dehydrated,” Shane pointed out sharply, “you will hurt yourself.”

“You said I’m not bleeding to death. It won’t kill me if I don’t go to the hospital.”

“I’m not going to have this conversation with you,” leaning down, Shane squinted his eyes, “it will _get_ infected.”

“Are you going to re-bandage it or not? Because I’m—” Ryan hadn’t noticed the box beside him, his elbow hit the corner of it and it caught his attention immediately. Connecting the dots, Ryan saw the first-aid kit opened and grabbed the bottle of disinfectant and a gauge.

Careful not to stain the new gauge with his blood, he turned to the sink and ran water over his injured hand. “I’ll do it myself, you should check if Garrett is here.”

Shane was quiet, “do you even know _how_ to take care of an injury?”

The answer to that is _no_. Ryan lived in a neighborhood that rarely had anything more than scrapes on his knees. He had an injury on his head before, fixing it with nothing but aspirin. 

“Yeah,” Ryan lied, scrubbing lightly over the old gauge before discarding it. He had been careful enough to avoid his injury, but prepared himself for what he knew was the unbearable sting of the disinfectant.

He held it over his hand, remotely close to pouring it over his knuckles when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“No,” Shane said, his hand on Ryan’s bicep and turned him around. “Use gel, it will hurt otherwise but it can relieve the itch from your hand—here.”

Taking away the disinfectant, Shane reached for a thin foil. Ripping it open, he spread the gel over Ryan’s knuckles. It _hurt_ , enough to make Ryan flinch under his touch. “And you didn't use this before… why?”

“Because I wanted to let you suffer,” Shane lowered his voice, smiling widely and bent his head down towards Ryan. He was close to Ryan’s face, and in his daze, Ryan couldn't think of a time where he could see Shane’s face up close. 

His skin pale, red underlying his eyes from staying out in the sun too long. He had thin lips that stretched out to reveal a smirk whenever he teased Ryan.

Ryan’s thoughts took control of everything he knew and didn't catch that he was staring at Shane’s lips. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Shane’s eyes were downcast. 

Was he staring too?

“I—they didn't—” Shane started, looking away immediately after being caught on the spot. “The first-aid kit I used didn't have any more of it. I assumed that you had bruised your hand. I didn't know that you had a deep cut.”

“As long as I’m not dying from blood loss,” Ryan laughed awkwardly, taking a step backward towards the counter. 

“Ryan, for the last time,” Shane moved his hand over Ryan’s, wrapping the gauge over his gelled knuckles. “You were nauseated from dehydration. Not to mention you skipped multiple meals. Can’t die from a cut made from someone’s tooth across your knuckles.”

Ryan’s mouth turned upward, now that Shane had forced him to drink water, he could understand _what_ a shit-show it must have been to guide a hallucinating man into the bathroom to tend to his boo-boo.

That sounds weirder in his head than he thought it would.

He kept his silence though, watching intently as Shane folded the bandage over his palm. _Had he done this before_? Ryan mused. Shane had his fair share of interrogations, still, he didn't picture him as somebody who would _use_ violence to his advantage. If anything, he had a scarier side to him. The first time Ryan and Shane met, Shane glared at Ryan like he had cussed out his mother out of nowhere. 

“I failed to keep you healthy and fed and we haven’t gotten married yet.”

There he goes, _ruining_ the moment. Ryan rolled his eyes and exclaimed _oh my god_ before making himself useful and putting away the items into the first-aid kit. “We’re not getting married, do I have to remind you every time?”

Spreading his arms, Shane retorted by yelling at the top of his lungs, “don’t be in denial of keeping me for the rest of your life, baby!”

“Don’t call me baby,” Ryan smiled anyway, closing the first-aid kit and stepping away from the counter. If Shane stealing a Honda didn't end with the both of them in jail, then getting kicked out of a fancy restaurant is a close second. “What—”

Ryan whirled around, he must have not realized that Shane never moved and he crashed into him. Not as swiftly as it should have been; Ryan elbowed Shane’s arm, making him exhale sharply and instinctively hold onto Ryan’s biceps. His large hands held Ryan in place, his face close to Shane’s chest and as a cherry-on-top, Ryan lifted his chin. 

Shane had always been attractive in Ryan’s eyes, and if he was honest, television quality didn't serve him justice. But his eyes, there was something about them that drew Ryan in. Droopy, brown eyes blinked before he lowered his gaze to his grip on Ryan. He left out a short laugh, his amusement disappeared after a second, “Ryan—”

A knock on the bathroom door startled them, breaking them apart. Careful to _not_ ruin Shane’s bandage work, Ryan rubbed his chin with his left hand and watched as Shane brought attention to the employee on the other side of the bathroom.

With a nod towards Ryan to follow, Shane left the bathroom.

Thank god he wasn’t red in the face this time.

Ryan looked at his reflection in the mirror and groaned, unable to stop his cheeks from growing redder each second. Well, the restaurant itself didn't have bright lights, at least. 

Garrett hadn’t arrived by the time Ryan reunited with Shane. They sat on an empty booth beside each other, silent and chewing on sweet bread served to them by the waiter. Complimentary water was given to Ryan instantly after he sat down, to which he was thankful for because he devoured several rolls of bread in ten minutes. 

He chewed on a roll in his hand as he felt eyes on him. For a second, in the pit of his stomach, he thought it was a sniper from across the room when he realized that Shane was sitting next to him. Fortunately, he wouldn’t be killed today because Shane would take a bullet for him.

It was his job after all.

“What is it?” Ryan’s uninjured hand lifted to his face, “do I have something on my face?”

The corners of Shane's eyes crinkled, furrowed his forehead before he smiled, “no, just you have a glimmer in your eye when you look at the sweet bread. Actually, happens whenever you eat delicious food—they’re seconds away from popping out of your sockets.”

Ryan inclined his head, sarcastically laughing before dousing his bread roll with an unhealthy amount of butter. He could still feel that Shane was looking at him, but… funny enough, knowing that it _was_ Shane, he didn't mind it at all. He pushed down a lot of strange moments with Shane, only because he… didn't know how to _feel_ about them. 

Are they considered friends? Or is it a colleague thing? Does Shane hold other team member’s hands whenever they’re anxious?

Imagining _that_ surprised Ryan when he cringed in… in what? Jealousy? 

Why would he feel jealous anyway? He and Shane would go their separate ways once the case was closed and done for; even if it was reopened years from now, Shane wouldn’t be interested to contact him. 

“Good job today.”

“Huh?” Ryan turned his head, ignoring the constant chatter from the table behind them. They sat next to the kitchen door, waiters and waitresses sprinted by and noisily went in-and-out from the stripped door. Shane didn't mind any noise, he placed his arm on the back of Ryan’s seat and leaned closer to him. 

“I said, _good_ job today. I thought you would have run away when the attention was on you.”

“Why would I run?” Ryan savored the bread he was given, however, Shane’s words to him are important to miss. “What do you take me for, Madej?”

“You were scared shit-less when I first met you, _Bergara_ ,” Shane retorted, lifting his hand from behind the booth, his warmth intimately close to the back of his neck. “I’m proud of you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” that was… new. Ryan pushed the wariness settling in his stomach and offered a grin, “thanks.”

He meant it, he did. Because in the end, what was partnership without the other supporting you? 

Speaking of, they haven’t spoken about what caused Ryan’s injury in the first place. Surprised that they have disregarded Ryan _punching_ a man because he spoke prejudicially towards Shane, Ryan dropped his bread roll on the small plate, wiping his hands on a napkin on his lap. 

“You—” how should he start? “You don’t have to uh—do _that_ thing you did earlier.”

Shane looked genuinely perplexed, “what _thing_?”

“You can stand up for yourself, you know that,” Ryan assured with a gloomy sigh. He recalled how Shane was actively taking verbal hits from an employee, somebody that didn't understand the details of this case and somebody that had animosity towards Ryan. (As if Ryan knew who the hell _he_ was.) “Not standing up for yourself probably isn’t good for you.”

“Oh… right—” Shane removed his arm, avoiding Ryan’s eyes and taking a long sip of his drink. Neither of them encouraged the other to order alcoholic drinks (for the sake of Shane and Ryan’s savings,) since their 'date' would be considered an interrogation at this point. So, Ryan watched as Shane drank half of his lemonade without thinking about it. 

Shane cringed when he stopped, stunned by its sour taste, “I never thought about doing that before. Nobody has ever defended me, not like you did. I wasn't sure how to react.”

"Of course you'd lack emotions," in the back of Ryan’s mind, he desperately wanted to know _why_. Yet, pushing Shane for the answer that had him devour half of his drink in one go didn't seem like a great idea. “ _Shocked_ , for a start. I’d be happy to stand up for you anyway,” Ryan shrugged, “I’ll run out of energy to punch every asshole though—”

“You—you don’t have to hurt them,” Shane countered, he waved his hands and tittered, “what use would you be if you’re in jail?”

“As if you’ll arrest me.”

“I’m not a police officer Ryan,” Shane’s voice grew softer, “Kelsey would _try_ to arrest you even if she isn’t one either. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried.”

_I haven’t done anything_! 

Ryan laughed as he opened his mouth to mimic the words in his head. Though, thinking about it, he drove around in burglarized cars, trespassed inside a house under investigation and _god_ knows what he’ll do with Shane months from now.

Was it selfish of him to stay in Chicago for as long as possible?

He didn't necessarily have to be involved in a gruesome homicide case to hang out with Shane Madej, did he? It wasn’t fair for Curly back home and he couldn’t coerce Shane to leave his life here for tiresome, eccentric Los Angeles. They never spoke about what would happen after the case had been closed, and truthfully, Ryan preferred to cross that bridge when they got there.

“Look who it is!” 

A booming voice reached their table and he turned his head the second that Shane stood from the booth. Startled, Ryan watched as an overjoyed Shane wrapped his arms around the familiar man and patted his back. It took a second to recognize Garrett and Ryan himself left the booth with a smile. 

Garrett met his gaze and let go of Shane to embrace Ryan for a moment, “Ryan! Hey man! How are you?”

He accepted it, patting Garrett's back, “you know, doing my job! Caught my fifteenth ghost this week,” Ryan shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal. He would never do such a thing because in Shane’s eyes, Ryan would have caught air in a jar. Garrett found it hilarious and _not_ seriously but entertained him anyway.

As Garrett swayed to the side, Ryan caught the sight of someone standing discreetly beside him.

Lydia, Susan’s cousin, was shorter than all of them. Her posture next to perfect, with her hair up in a tight ponytail and vivid makeup on her face. Her skin was darker than Susan’s and her hair wasn’t red; she didn't look like Susan, if anything, her features must have been passed down from another side of the family. Still, she was gorgeous.

“Oh, this is Lydia,” Garrett introduced his date, his arm instinctively reaching for her shoulders. The difference in their height made it easy for Lydia to hide, but once announced to them, her mouth curved into a smile and unabashedly appeared before them.

“Nice to meet you,” she extended her arm to Shane first, then to Ryan, her grip was steady and from the tone of her voice, it was evident that neither of them knew what happened hours before. 

Lydia tugged on her ear, “heard you were engaged. Congratulations, you must be thrilled.”

Oh right. _That_.

“Thank you,” Shane chuckled, his arm hovered over Ryan's back and withheld from actually touching him. Ryan appreciated, but he wasn't opposed to PDA. He stood still anyway, “we can’t wait, really. Sometimes Ryan talks about going to the courthouse and getting married _there_. Little guy gets impatient.”

Ryan forced a smile, hiding the urge to elbow Shane in the stomach, “ _buttercup_ , why don’t we sit down?” 

“ _Okay_ ,” Shane's arm left Ryan's back, and pointed to their booth, Shane’s eyes crinkled and he looked down at Ryan, “we should… sit down. We haven’t ordered.” 

He moved away to let Garrett and Lydia walk past them, they walked to their side of the booth wrapped in each other and whispered lovingly about _maybe_ what they should order. As they were out of sight, Ryan’s smile faded and he glared at Shane, mouthing _marrying in a courthouse, are you kidding_?

Shane extended his arms, dramatically motioning to himself as if to say that he _panicked_. He lowered his voice, “buttercup? _buttercup_?”

Ignoring him, Ryan walked to their booth, grumbled as they both settled into the seats, “right, because the man who saves up nicknames for—so, Lydia, Garrett told us you work as an artist.”

Her eyes widened, turning her head from the menu in her hands to Garrett. “Did he? Well, it pays my rent. I met Garrett while I studied art history in college.”

Both Ryan and Shane _knew_ that, unfortunately. Most of the Parker family was interrogated by Shane’s team, and Lydia recalled most of her story to Kelsey. They read her report three times, making sure that anything she says didn't change today. 

Not that it was possible Lydia had committed a crime. Her alibi was air-tight, she didn't miss work during the summer. Especially on the day Susan was pronounced dead. 

They listened to her. As much as Ryan wanted to deny that their bizarre, double-date wasn’t an interrogation, it almost _was._ Lydia recalled the story of when Garrett met her and her family, when they reconnected all these years later and what she’s planning for the future. 

“What about you Ryan? What do you do?” She asked over her dinner, fork and knife in both hands. Her expression didn't give away the fact that she didn't know who he was. In fact, “Garrett told me that you moved to Chicago to become a paranormal investigator. Could have sworn he was messing with me.”

With eyes on him, Ryan laughed warily, “well… I am.” 

He didn't like to lie (not because he _couldn’t_ lie,) because he felt like he wouldn’t be able to keep up with his lies. Still, he sat up straight, “yeah, I’ve always loved the paranormal. It’s not my _full-time_ job, but I do believe in finding the truth.”

“So,” she began, “a medium?”

“I mean—I’m not _exactly_ reliable—”

“Are you kidding?” Garrett interrupted him, his arm rested around the back of the booth. He turned his body towards Ryan and gave him a smile, “you’re psychic for _sure_. Always has strange feelings everywhere. Didn't you tell me after we met that you had _good_ vibes emitting from me?”

What Ryan _felt_ sometimes wasn’t evidence. Sometimes he felt weird, sometimes he felt alright, and other times he couldn’t stand to be in because he _felt_ something looming over him. But that was a part of being _human_. Not once had he found distrust towards his gut, but he didn't claim (nor did he want to) himself as sensitive to the paranormal.

“Sure… but I’m not psychic. I don’t predict the future.”

“That’s… interesting,” Lydia’s eyebrows rose, she dropped her utensils on her plate. “How do you know Shane Madej?”

“I…” Ryan nibbled on his bottom lip, he couldn’t lie. What kind of person was he _to_ lie to somebody who would know who he was later? “I’m working with him.”

“Oh,” Lydia grew silent. Garrett shot her a worried look before he stopped chewing on his dinner. “So you… you are the Ryan _Bergara_ my family has talked to me about.”

Waiting for Lydia to storm off, Ryan braced himself. “Yes...?”

Lydia didn't react, her eyes shifted from Ryan to Shane, undoubtedly questioning why she was here to begin with. After a moment, she turned to Garrett, “are they _actually_ engaged?”

On the spot, Garrett opened his mouth to reply. He knew that they weren’t. The minute Shane described their fake engagement to him, he knew that Ryan was in on the homicide case he was investigating.

“Not ... not really?”

“It’s not his fault!” Ryan chimed in abruptly, waving his hands around before anything catastrophic would occur. Lydia turned to him, she had no hostility written over her features, but she rested her hands on the table. “Nobody knew I was working with Shane! So—”

The man in question, Shane, perked up and ended his silence. “You knew?”

It was obviously directed to Garrett who shrugged his shoulders.

After a moment, Lydia asserted, “so, you want to ask me about my cousin?”

Ryan’s heart pounded out of his chest, “no! We’re not here to interrogate you,” and that was the truth. “Shane and Garrett are old friends, and we didn't know he was involved at all. We didn't know he was dating you until we met up with him.”

Lydia’s head bobbed, taking in Ryan’s words thoughtfully as she kept her silence. The taut atmosphere in their booth was deafening, enough to convince Ryan that he fucked-up in lying to keep his identity a secret. It was bound to happen sooner or later, Ryan’s face wasn’t much of a secret anymore, and all it took was for Lydia to somehow take a peek of a picture from the daily newspaper.

It would be best if Lydia walked out now—

“I can’t tell you more about Susan, I’m sorry,” Lydia suddenly spoke, her eyes downcast and on her half-touched plate. She retreated her hands from the table, rested on the napkin in her lap. “We weren’t close, I lived in LaFayette and she lived in Chicago. She’s my step cousin.”

Wait, what?

“Step cousin?” Shane pondered, uncertainty drawn on his face. That hadn’t been on the report. Lydia spoke about herself and her time with her cousin, if it had been short-lived, then it wasn’t mentioned. 

“Yes, we rarely spoke growing up. Last time I heard from her, gosh,” Lydia scratched her head, “maybe years ago. She wrote to me often.”

“What did she write? Anything at all?”

Lydia looked uncomfortable, she fidgeted in her seat as her ponytail swung over her shoulder when her eyes moved to Garrett. “I never opened her letters. Again, I never thought to be close to her. My mother always told me that cousin Susan was not the best person. But I never wished for anything awful to happen to her.”

Ryan sighed, he softened his eyes and reached for her forearm. She was soft, and filled with remorse that poured out of her and ran through Ryan’s veins. He ignored the anguish he felt, instead offered his condolences.

“I know what you do Ryan Bergara,” she rested her hand on his, she cradled his as if she were consoling a child, “I can reassure you, Susan Parker was never, _ever_ , involved in witchcraft.”

Ryan believed her. Susan’s house was wiped clean, nothing suspected that she was involved in rituals or harming others through dark magic. If it weren’t for Amari and Susan’s connection to the Roseberrys, it could have been possible to rule Parker’s murder as one of its own.

“My family hates you,” Lydia continued, removing her hand from his, “Susan was an atheist and did not believe in the afterlife or magic. She couldn’t have done this.”

An… atheist.

Synchronized, Shane and Ryan inched closer: “ _she was_?”

Lydia nodded, “I think that’s why she stayed in Chicago, away from Sunday Mass. If I’m honest, my mother thinks differently.”

Ryan gaped, looking over at Shane. He never shows it, but Ryan knew that Shane _didn't_ know this at all. Silence filled their booth again, the sounds of dishes and other conversations resurged over theirs. With their food half-eaten, Garrett asked for the check when Lydia dropped a bomb-shell.

“Please don’t mention this to anyone. I… my mother thinks Susan and Daniel Amari were having an affair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Abuela:_ Grandma  
>  _Hermoso:_ Handsome  
>  _Que es?:_ What is it?  
>  _Ya se fueron? Y Ryan?:_ Did they leave? What about Ryan?


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October!!!!!!!! This is so late and I am sorry for that orz. This is also the last chapter of part one, so next update will be two chapters in one :-)  
> I hope you enjoy! I appreciate all your comments, kudos and hits (700+ yay!!) 
> 
> **Warning: this chapter contains graphic description of murder.**

**SEPTEMBER 1988**   
**Chicago, Illinois**

“Are you serious?”

"Yes, I'm serious."

"You're _not_ being serious."

"Of course I am," Shane claimed, though his tone had been impassive and Ryan knew that he wasn't serious, "we can spend our honeymoon in Louisiana.”

“Shane," Ryan exhaled, "I’m not going to Louisiana. For all _we_ know, she might have lied!” Ryan waved his hand, carelessly shouting before he leant his back on the passenger door, “I don't think it's a good idea. Susan isn’t here to defend herself.”

Shane snuck a grimace from the bottom of the Honda he was hi-jacking. His body amusingly contoured to fit under the driver’s seat, wires in his hand and fighting with himself to connect them. 

Ryan, (“as look-out,”) pondered about what to do next. He pushed back his black hair from his eyes and looked around his surroundings. Valet parking was for the _rich_ with licenses that owned to the car, so Ryan and Shane settled for the farthest parking spot available. He stared at innumerable taken parking spots, and yet, people hadn't thought to care that Shane was trying to hi-jack the car he stole in the first place. What good would being a look-out be?

“What about Susan?”

Shane's voice, muffled, resounded from the car, “what _about_ Susan?”

“She was an atheist,” Ryan recalled Lydia showing him _proof_ afterward that Susan omitted herself from attending Sunday Mass when she lived in LaFayette years before the incident. “That’s something right?”

“It’s something alright,” Shane groaned, his shoes scraped on the pavement below him and finally, after fifteen minutes of trying, sat up when the car’s engine roared to life. He fixed his hair, resting his elbows on the driver’s seat, “what did you feel in Parker’s house?”

“N—nothing! There was nothing there,” Ryan spluttered, finally, sat in the passenger seat. “I didn't feel anything.”

“Well, there you go.”

“My emotions towards Parker’s house is not evidence, Shane.”

“We can always trespass,” and Shane was genuinely thinking about it, sitting up and taking his place in the Honda. “We could do that weird tech thingy you do. With the… recorder, you have it with you right?”

“I do."

“Wait, seriously—”

“We’re not trespassing,” Ryan protested swiftly, because for whatever reason, Shane ran on adrenaline alone and he would have sped them to a closed off location before Ryan could breathe. “There’s nothing there. We’ll have to figure something else out.”

"You're the angel on my shoulder, huh? Always thinking about what's right, this guy," Shane grumbled. Shutting the door to the Honda, Shane leant back on the driver’s seat too. Looking almost as defeated as Ryan, he ran his hands over his face, “Susan and Daniel. How did we miss _that_?”

After their dinner, Garrett and Lydia said their goodbyes to them before leaving together. It wasn’t as bad as Ryan thought it would be, Garrett hadn’t blamed them for lying and Lydia… she wasn’t against their efforts to solve her cousin’s murder. And somehow, their disaster of a double-date had added another layer of both ineffectual and beneficial claims towards Parker, Ryan could barely keep up.

“Is this what it’s like?” Ryan whispered, “do you think we’re making it harder than it should be?”

“It happens,” Shane replied, picking at the lint on his dress pants, “cases like ours, they’re never solved because of information piling in or… secrets within the family. Ryan, we don’t know if the killer is _human_.”

Ryan closed his eyes, lolled his head back on the cushion of his seat and cradled his injured hand. He didn't reply, neither did he want to play _devil's advocate_ with Shane right now. Spending everyday with Shane meant that his aura was stronger than most, at least, for Ryan. And his emotions towards certain situations always affected Ryan; most of the time it was positive, still, he couldn’t help but feel helplessness radiate from him.

“Please don’t get frustrated,” he pleaded, swaying his head back and forth, “we’re stuck in a car together, the last thing we need is a migraine.”

Shane let out a chortle, turning into a roaring laugh that echoed in the Honda. He kept laughing, almost as if it was keeping him from spiraling into lunacy. His hands covered his face as he laughed, fingers rubbing his eyes before he let out a sharp breath. “We’ll start from the beginning. We can start over. First, I’ll call Steven.”

Ryan nodded his head, “what for?”

Shane shrugged, and jokingly quipped: “Maybe I could take him out for dinner.”

Ryan wanted to point out that there's a killer on the loose, that Steven probably had plans with Andrew that he wouldn't reschedule _and_ despite their differences on the paranormal, the culprit was either human or a demon. And… “how would you arrest a demon?”

“Ryan…” Shane drawled, then his head shot up. Blinking forward before tilting it to Ryan’s, their eyes met and he shrugged his shoulders again, “I don’t know, we’re going to have to wait and see.”

“Alright, you’ve lost it. Let me drive, big guy.”

Ryan launched over Shane’s lap, opening the driver’s door and letting it swing open. “Heh… we’re going to have _so_ many calls tomorrow,” Shane let himself be pushed out of the Honda onto the pavement, he caught himself before he would get run over and stood there like an idiot before walking to the passenger side. 

Never had driven a Honda before, Ryan admired the steering wheel as Shane adjusted himself on the seat. “You get calls?”

“Yep,” Shane smiled to himself, almost like that answer was hilarious to him, “you’re going to answer them all.”

_Whatever_ , Ryan thought to himself, he was driving a piece of shit. Nothing else bothered him at the moment.

…

Shane wasn’t kidding.

The calls were… incessant. Every second that Ryan sat on Shane’s desk, a phone rang somewhere in the office. An endless echo that buzzed through the halls, a sound that even security and detectives halted in their steps to answer. Today, that was Ryan’s job. 

(Not that Shane was interested in answering to (potential) leads and prank calls. 

He just… wasn’t _concerned_ in the slightest to answer said phone to (possible) leads and prank calls.)

At first, the possibility of solving a case known nationwide dawned on Ryan when he listened to the other person calling them. At five in the morning, a total of three people called Shane’s line with information that could have helped. (If only he knew.)

He shrugged his shoulders then, writing it down on Shane’s notepad anyway, smirking when Shane threw him a look from where he was lounging on the brown couch. Hand on an ice-pack on his forehead and the other buried in his jacket, Shane rolled his eyes and proceeded to close his eyes to resume his slumber. 

By seven, Shane was snoring and Ryan had to call Devon for another notepad. He didn't understand the severity of it all when Devon called him _back_ to tell him that they had run out and she’s giving him a hefty pack of blank paper instead. 

(Ryan had tried to keep himself as quiet as possible, Shane was a heavy sleeper, but he kept his promise to his friend to not disturb him. 

He tried. He couldn’t help himself to exclaim _what!?_ when Devon told him that she’s been getting calls too.

Running a hand over his face, Ryan ignored Shane’s lethargic laughter and his smart-ass comment of _the line is connected to all offices, buddy._ )

Thankfully, Ryan received compliments about his voice anyway, drawing people in for more information and to elaborate or to lull them to sleep, so who’s the sore loser _now_. 

(Shane told him he probably had women and men call him just to hear him speak. Ryan ignored him.)

“Uh-huh, and you said—you own an antique shop?”

“ _Yes, I do. I also own a botany,_ ” the voice on the other line spoke, her voice monotone but rushed, almost delighted to share this information with somebody else. Ryan absorbed this information like a sponge—the lady on the other side owned what Curly could translate to as a botanica. It wasn’t as absurd as one would think because, hell, Ryan had _lived_ in Curly's botanica for years. Still, the call had been traced to the outskirts of Chicago, Ryan didn't think it was achievable to believe and doubt somebody at the same time. 

Steven, lovely man Steven, sat on the chair opposite to Shane’s desk. Twirling a roll of elastic tape with his fingers, he grinned when Ryan looked at him and unhelpfully beamed.

“And—where did you say your shop was?”

The woman on the other line rambled, her words flowed from one to the other too rapidly for Ryan to remember. Stammering, he sought for a blank piece of paper and a working _pen_ , drawing with all the used ones to check if the ink would work when the door to the office opened.

“Hello boys,” it was the devil himself, Madej. He strolled in with a brown paper bag with a nameless brand and a smile that could be seen for miles. Unfortunately, with the commotion on the other side of the door, Ryan couldn’t hear the person he was speaking to.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

She did, right when Shane thought it was a good idea to set the bag he was carrying next to Ryan and walk away with his loud ass shoes. 

Ryan held his hand over the phone and whispered to them to _be quiet_ , in which they didn't. 

“You’re late,” Steven curiously reached for the bag before his hand was slapped away by Shane. “What is it?”

“It’s for the little guy,” he said with a perpetually tired voice. “Hadn’t had breakfast all morning.”

How thoughtful, Ryan mused. But Ryan knew, he _knew_ that his ‘ignoring Shane and listening to something else’ skill would pay off somehow and wrote what the woman on the other line was saying to him. 

Her name Aria, her shop, _Pendulum_ and her claim that she’s seen the sisters' necklaces before and had possibly sold them to the killer. 

If only Ryan hadn’t heard it twenty times today, he would have believed her. 

He sighed, crossing out Aria’s name and hung up on her after she gave her information to him. Ryan leant back on Shane’s chair and looked at the brown bag that Shane brought him. It must be a breakfast sandwich, just the way Ryan ordered it once before when Shane gave in and finally took him to a fast-food joint.

“Thank you,” he said, actually meaning it. He took it without too much thought, knowing that Shane would order him extra sauce on a day like today. And he did!

Ryan’s mouth curved upwards for the first time today, eyes sparkled at the sight of _two_ sandwiches for him. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until he saw it, unwrapping the biscuit and taking a bite of it. He groaned, tilting his head back on Shane’s chair and looked at him.

Shane looked at him, equally as thrilled about breakfast with him and drank out of his coffee cup. “Must have been a hassle to answer all these calls,” he teased, “I didn't think you could do it. Proved me wrong today, huh?”

“You even got me _extra_ bacon?” Ryan mumbled with a full mouth, “you must really like me.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed from Shane to Ryan, holding his gaze for a moment before letting out a soft snort. “What is going on right now? Where have _you_ been?” That last part was directed to Shane, to which he pointed at the back of a used pen at. 

“Home?” Shane’s expression changed, from being enthusiastic over bacon to distractedly consuming caffeine into his body. “Shower? We had a particularly long night.”

“You’re funny,” Steven didn't laugh, “Kelsey explained—no _re-told_ the wonderful story about yesterday. Ryan punched an ex-employee who was going to punch you,” he pointed at Shane again, “and then you went out on a date.”

“A double-date,” Ryan corrected, as if it makes a difference, his hand reached for the crumbs falling from his mouth, “also, not real. We met up with Garrett and Lydia.”

“Parker’s _cousin_?” Scandalized, Steven dropped the pen on the desk and leant forward, crossing his arms waiting for Ryan’s reply. “And she didn't skin you alive?”

“She didn't know who I was, at first.”

“At first—no!” Steven slapped his cheek lightly, holding his hand over his gaped mouth. “ _You told her_?” His voice lowered, he faked his surprise at Ryan announcing who he was to a woman who was involved in a homicide investigation.

“She probably suspected something,” Ryan pointed out, “I was allegedly private investigator Shane Madej’s fiancé.”

Steven turned on the chair, looking back at Shane who took his own seat on his couch. He didn't let anything bother him and his impassive features returned, making sure that _yes_ , _I said he was my partner_.

“Right...” Steven was facing away from Ryan, yet, he could see what a shit-eating grin he had on display. Turning back to Ryan, he composed himself and straightened up on his chair. “Is that all? Did she say anything?”

“Nothing we could—”

“She believes her mother has something on Parker,” Shane interrupted, he jiggled his knee as he sat, “we're not sure if its a rumor within the family. She also said Parker was an atheist.”

“Oh,” Steven nodded to himself, "so, she _isn't_ Catholic?"

“We don't know,” Shane confirmed, “it’s important to consider all possibilities. Personally, I don’t think she had planned Mary’s murder or Isabelle’s murder.”

“Still,” Steven pondered, “you think she must have known something.”

Shane grew quiet, taking a sip of his coffee and downed it once he noticed it was almost empty. Ryan assumed that’s a _yes_ on his behalf and ate the rest of his sandwich before the phone rang again. The routine began right away, answering with the monotone statement of their department and writing down whatever they said to him below crossed out names.

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Shane asked Steven as Ryan spoke to the man on the other line. Unbothered that he would miss anything, Ryan continued to write what the man claimed to be the ‘upcoming zodiac killer’ that murdered the Roseberrys with a chainsaw. 

It wasn’t true, Ryan listened anyway.

“Yeah,” Steven dug through the documents in front of him (thanks Devon,) and reached for a thin binder. “While the two of you were playing the newlywed game, Devon called a few manufacturing companies outside of Illinois again.”

“And?” Shane opened the binder, skimming through the words of the documents.

“We’re doubtful but a manufacturing company in New York called back to inform us that they produced those lockets and sent them out to several stores around the East Coast. In Chicago, their products had been sold to a woman who owns a shop called Pendulum.”

Ryan’s eyes widened, the man’s voice on the other side had faded and his southern accent traced to a city in Georgia. He knew that he couldn’t hang up suddenly, unless he had another call coming in. “I’ll see what we can do,” he said with a frantic voice, “thank you for calling.”

He toned out the man’s goodbyes to reach for the paper where Aria’s crossed out name was. Under that, the name of her store: “Pendulum.”

Steven and Shane turned to him, “what is it?”

“Pendulum—this—this woman, Aria. She called me after Steven had walked in here, she said she sells antiques outside of Chicago,” Ryan stressed, his hands shook as he held a piece of paper and gave it to Shane. He tried to remember what he could, that her name was Aria and she was certain she sold the evidence sitting behind him to _somebody_.

“She said she sold identical jewelry and other items to a man in her shop, Pendulum.”

“Don’t joke Bergara, I am those faint of heart,” Shane tilted his head, shaking it to the side as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. Luckily for him, Ryan has a sixth sense for these kinds of things.

“I’m not,” the smile on his face was instant, “why don’t we pay her a visit?”

“I say, _we should_ ,” Shane doesn’t drive his own car, hasn’t since he’s met Ryan months ago. So when he reached for _his_ car keys on his desk and threw them at Ryan, he was left speechless and unsure of what to do next. Months ago, Shane would have rather been left to the wolves in the middle of the woods than to have Ryan speak to him about the unknown.

As he held the car keys—a fucking _Ford Taurus_ , of all things—Ryan’s heart flipped in his chest and he grabbed his backpack beneath Shane’s desk. Swinging it over his shoulder, watching Shane nod towards Steven as a sign of gratitude and walked beside Ryan. 

...

“What in the hell is this?” Shane’s eyes squinted at the pouch placed in his large hand. He squeezed it for good measure before taking the string attached, letting the pouch hang on his index finger. “Did you curse me?”

Ryan would have joked that he _did_ or had wished that he had if the situation called for it. However, standing outside of a plaza—filled with local shops, small-time insurance companies, a bookstore and a botany store—minutes away from stepping into what (supposedly) is the most haunted shop in Chicago to investigate the possibility of witchcraft in a homicide…

To say the least, Ryan kept it to himself and instead assured: “It’s to keep you safe. Limpia is what Curly calls it. It’s sage oil and dry herbs, and is considered sacrilege to him. At least… it is every time I lose it.”

“He made... Limpia?” Shane’s eyebrow rose, holding the pouch away from, “what is that?”

“He didn't _make_ Limpia, it’s a ritual. He just—compacted a replacement for said ritual because he couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t get myself in trouble at first. Don’t be scared of it,” Ryan grumbled, taking the pouch of Limpia from Shane that was meant for him if he ever lost his. 

Like his equipment, his pouch kept him from facing death is on him at all times. It was a surprise that Shane never mentioned the aroma that admitted from him, unless he thought Ryan, from California, was into some hardcore pot. 

“It works,” it does. “It had saved me before from an exorcism gone… right? Listen, I can’t get into much detail but a demon attached itself to me and it didn't hurt me just gave me a few nightmares…? Don’t look at me like that, it _works_!”

Doubt clouded Shane’s features, looking as skeptical as the day they met. Almost as if he had been born and immediately after told his mother that _technically_ he had been alive for months. “I can’t exactly afford to _not_ believe you. Alright _Dario Argento_ , how would I carry this?”

Ryan gave him a look, squinted his eyes and sneered, " _Suspiria_? Really?"

Shane shrugged his shoulders as Ryan shook his head in amusement, and pointed at Shane's coat. When Shane didn't budge, Ryan took the pouch from him and adjust the pocket of his jacket. Shane was taller at him by a good margin, Ryan would say, he still managed to flip open his maroon jacket and slid the pouch of Limpia in one of the pockets. “There. If anything comes near you, it will be deflected from you, eh, with little to no side-effects.”

Shane lingered his gaze on the inside of his jacket before adjusting it, seemingly taking in Ryan’s baloney with ease. He’ll know when they’re walking in a shop with creepy shit in a moment. Speaking of, “I don’t know what she’s selling by the way. Or what she claimed as demonic or not. It is not advised to touch or taunt _anything_.”

“Why would I taunt an object?”

“I don’t know! You seem like the type,” Ryan shrugged, looking back to the shop. There had been a faded sign on the glass, an _Open_ poster aside _Now Hiring Full-Time_. Pendulum was the name of the shop, still, there wasn’t much of an indication that it was called such a thing anywhere. If anything, the flimsy shop could advertise as a thrift store or of a pawn shop that had nothing to do with the paranormal.

The exterior pale, a contrast of what is to be a dim lit room with things and objects that would creep Ryan out for weeks. He’s seen antique stores similar to the one he’s about to venture into and each one had affected his sleeping schedule one way or the other.

Looking back, Shane wasn’t next to him at the time.

And while Ryan does believe that spirits could linger around objects, he pleaded: “I think you should be respectful to everything in there, even if it’s a pencil. I don’t want to die on the drive home.”

Shane didn't say anything, he smiled wickedly as if that’s his goal for the day. If they didn't follow up with a lead after their visit, Ryan could kiss his ass goodbye forever. “Shane, _don’t_.”

Again, silent, Shane opened the door to the shop and held it for Ryan above his head. A bell resonated a shrill tone, announcing their presence in the shop (in the outskirts of Chicago, mind you.)

The unwelcoming atmosphere was instant for Ryan, hitting him directly in the face with an invisible fist of the ghost that resided there. He wanted to desperately take out a spirit box, a recorder, _anything_ , to see if there was something else in there with them. Because by the potent emotion Ryan felt running through his veins, he knew someone was watching them. 

“Whoa,” Ryan croaked, resting his hand on his chest to check if it was his hand that was shaking and not his entire core. He walked in front of Shane, unaware of what his partner was doing until he heard a rapid thud next to him. He jumped, cowering next to Shane who looked in his direction.

“What is it? What did you see?”

See? “Hear,” he clarified, “must be the owner. Hello?”

Ryan gathered up his wits and bravery, extended his neck to see past the antiques before him. He didn't hear any reply for a moment, forcing him to take in his surroundings again. It was dark, as expected, a red light constantly glowing over the both of them. Antiques weren’t set like the one’s back in L.A, they were scattered around the shop, mixed with boxes of used clothing and electronics with white signs beside them showcasing a price with black marker.

The shop was outlandish to say the least, woefully threatened Ryan with every second he was there. He called out again, “h—hello? We’re investigating a lead given to us by Aria? You were on the phone with us?”

“Jesus, Ryan,” Shane’s voice responded in the silence of the shop, comfortably pressed beside him, “are you okay, man? You’re shaking.”

“I’m—” Ryan swallowed, was he actually shaking? “This place makes me feel uneasy that’s all. We’ll just talk to Aria and leave.”

“Do you need to go outside? We don’t need to do this today.”

“No, no,” Ryan set his emotions aside, deep in the corner of his brain where any demonic entity couldn’t reach. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of, if he respected the items in the room and left them alone, he’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

One look over to Shane dawned in the realization that he wasn’t alone, Shane’s life was on the line too. Where he went, Shane followed on his path, unaware that all of _this_ scared the living shit out of Ryan. He faced it however, standing straighter and calling for the owner. Any moment longer with Shane surrounded by what he believed to be haunted antiques, the more danger he was in.

Especially when he had the tendency to reach for items unknowingly. 

“What is any of this?” Shane’s finger scraped the side of a wooden box, inside a broken vase with a floral design. The box wasn’t locked, completely missing the point of sealing it off in the first place. Ryan counted his blessings and grabbed Shane’s wrist anyway, “like what—?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan moved Shane’s arm away, his fingers wrapped around his wrist and felt Shane's pulse. Shane didn't yank his hand away, and calmly looked down at Ryan, “I don’t trust that you’ll try to open it.”

“What? You think it’s going to grow legs and run towards you?”

Ryan huffed, exhaled through his nose, “ _no_. I don’t know _what_ it’s capable of doing, Shane.”

“Ryan, it’s a vase.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Ryan reached behind him, his backpack, he had a thermal reader that he had borrowed from Zack before leaving for Los Angeles. If there’s anything that could convince Shane that the vase had some sweet, paranormal activity, it could be _this_. “See!”

“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” Shane confessed, “for you, I’ll act stunned. Do you want a... _you pulled out a gun_ surprised or _is that something in your pocket or are you happy to see me_ surprised?”

Ryan let Shane mock his astonishment to himself as he turned on the thermal reader, placing it on the wooden box for Shane to read. “There you go, scientist, you see the temperature change for yourself.”

Zack mentioned to Ryan that the thermal reader, by default, began at normal room temperature before picking up any spikes of surrounding temperature. If Shane could see that in person without tampering, then he has to be sure that Ryan is _serious_.

“You’re making me stare at a thermometer, set on a wooden box, keeping a vase inside, _and_ you give me a pouch of herbs to keep me safe?”

“Limpia,” Ryan stated, his eyes directly on the thermal reader. 

“Limpia,” Shane echoed, “frankly, I’m overwhelmed. I’m spoiled.”

For a second, the temperature dropped, indicating that it had gone from seventy-seven to seventy-three in an absurd short amount of time. Ryan faintly smiled, hesitant to be happy in such a moment, “see, it spiked when you said Limpia.”

“The vase hates herbs.”

There was another thud to Ryan’s left, “shh! Did you hear that?”

“Really hope it’s not the vase,” Shane joked, refusing to keep quiet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Hard to explain to the guys back at the precinct.” 

Ryan heard him, but his eyes had been glued to the other side of the wooden box. Behind it—aside from the dim crimson light—were other antiques, arranged in poses or on display for tourists who would get a kick out of haunted items. 

It worsened Ryan’s mood, his uneasiness reverted back to exasperation and distress. Almost as if he couldn’t control it, the frustration engulfed him with every second that continued—until he saw it.

On the wall, next to a few signs warning others to not touch, were tools. Hammers, chainsaws, axes and other sets of equipment that supposedly originated from the industrial era in Chicago. 

Ryan didn't care about that. What worried him most was that he didn't feel frustrated anymore, he felt _relief_.

Curly’s told him before—many, many times—that he was connected to auras in ways he couldn’t understand. Ryan didn't believe him. Not because he didn't _want_ to but it was a stretch, even for Ryan. He wasn’t a medium… clairvoyant or anything in-between. He loved the paranormal, he wanted to seek the truth and that was _it_.

Now, as he was reaching for the closed flap in his backpack, he knew what Curly meant. 

“What’s up?” Shane lowered his voice, looming over Ryan’s back and himself kept his hands to himself. Shane wasn’t armed, yet, he wouldn’t waver to use a haunted object against anyone. “What is it? You have that freaky look in your eye—what the hell is that.”

“Holy water,” Ryan replied, cradling a plastic flask to his chest. “Limpia will protect you, this is a precaution.”

“Ryan—” Shane croaked, “you seriously think we’ll run into a demon right now? And you’ll spray it with _water_?”

“Holy water.”

“Holy—what would that do? Neutralize its evil tendencies?”

“I don’t—honestly, I don’t know what it _could_ do if it came to that,” Ryan looked at the flask, he had obtained the water from his local priest. (He didn't go to Sunday Mass; however, with Curly as his roommate, he didn't have much of a choice to ignore that holy water _is_ an option.)

He knew that it would probably hurt anything evil. Sting their skin with burn marks and make them cower away from him, believing that he was invincible with sage oil in one hand and holy water on the other. If he _really_ thought about it, he’d call himself a lunatic, _but_ nothing has physically hurt him!

Ryan 1. Ghosts 0.

He explained that to Shane, who frankly, gave him the biggest smile he’s ever seen, “you’ve out dumbed yourself. You’ve done it. I wasn’t sure you could and you did. I’m almost proud.”

Rolling his eyes, Ryan kept his holy water close and ignored Shane’s comment. “It makes me feel safer. If there’s anything to take from this,” he looked around the room, his gaze landed on the tools, “I really hate it here.”

Shane stood behind him most of the time, though, he side-stepped to take a look at Ryan’s expression. It was weird, Shane didn't seem amused or pleased at Ryan’s scared face, if anything, he appeared to be concerned. 

Awkwardly, Ryan blinked and grounded his feet. He was being stupid. This was part of Shane’s job; he had to interrogate thousands of people, receive prank calls and look at gory pictures for months before he concluded who and why someone has done something like this. And Ryan? He was feeling _bad_ over a shop in Chicago.

“It’s the vase,” finally, Shane spoke. He narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself, head bobbed as he placed his fingers on his chin and squinted his eyes. “The vase has some powerful energy.”

What?

“W—what the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on,” Shane turned away from Ryan, boots squeaked on the wooden floors back to the vase. Ryan looked at him, convinced that he'd been teasing him before realizing that what Ryan had been most anxious about was far away from the vase. “Why else would it be locked in a box?”

Ryan’s eyebrow rose, “that’s a reach. You’re on thin ice, skeptic.”

“Alright man,” Shane lifted his hand, forming a fist and tapping his knuckles on the glass of the wooden box. The vase remained still, as it _should_ and Ryan asked himself why the hell it was in its own prison in the first place. “Strange. Do you think it killed someone?”

“ _Shane_.”

“I’m serious,” Shane went on, “don’t tell me you’ve never heard about that doll up in Connecticut? Crazy shit.”

“That’s different, I think,” still, the more Ryan thought about it, he hated Shane being in close proximity to the vase. He slowly walked towards him, clutched Shane's maroon jacket and pulled him further away from the object he had compared a possessed doll to. “I didn't know you knew about that. Who told you?”

Shane looked down at Ryan, he smiled when Ryan dragged him a step away from the case. He didn't voice it, but he knew he was amused by Ryan's antics, “hmm, I read about it.”

“You did?”

“I did!” Shane defended himself at Ryan’s doubtful tone, “I'm a bit of a history nerd. I didn't read a lot of it, I don’t trust paranormal investigators, I think it’s just you.”

“Well,” Ryan clicked his tongue, “we’re both out of luck. That kind of shit creeps me out enough to stay away from it. I don’t know much about it either.”

Shane laughed, patting Ryan’s shoulder with one hand and turned his eyes back to the vase as if it was a scenic view. “The doll is locked in a box, I’ve heard. Just like this, and—hypothetically—if items can be possessed by a malicious spirit and cursed items are intended to stay far from reach, not manufactured and sold to this wonderful lady, do you think she’s the one we’re looking for?”

Lost, Ryan crossed his arms around his chest, forehead creased as he looked at Shane, “what do you mean?”

“Someone had to show our culprit the ropes,” shoving his hands inside his pockets again, Shane explained, “I’m going to ask a few harsh questions to her, I’m warning you in advance. And I want you to look around the shop for hex bags and other items that she could use against us.”

“You—”

“And Ryan,” Shane went on, rubbing the stubble on his jawline, “stay away from the tools. I’ll look through them myself.”

Bewildered, Ryan stared at his partner long enough to understand what the hell he was on about. Shane didn't think anything was real—much less cursed or haunted artifacts—he stuck to his insight of scientific proof weighing into the paranormal. He _knows_ people. He knew how they think, he knew when they'd manipulate and lie.

He knew their methods of murder.

Shane thinks—”you think this is all a ruse? You think Aria is toying with us?”

“I don’t know, Ryan,” Shane murmured, “but if she’s telling you the truth, how sure are we that she’s not an accomplice or is fooling us to think otherwise?”

“This is—very sudden. What makes you think that?”

For a moment, Shane shook his head and looked away. In the dim store, Ryan could see half of his face, only a margin of what he would usually see at various locations where a murder took place. Only, this was an interrogation—Shane must have seen something.

“You,” finally, he replied, “I have a theory and I beg you to not mention this to my skeptic buddies back in the city.”

Well, Ryan didn't expect that. It made Ryan chuckle, “are you going to tell me what it is?”

“If we find anything, maybe,” Shane leant forward, digging his hands behind Ryan’s jacket to his backpack. He took out the thermal reader, holding it in his hand and perplexedly stared at it. “I’m going to hold onto this. Don’t look at me like that, I’m testing something out.”

Ryan squinted his eyes, his mouth curved upwards to say _I told you so_ and turned the thermal reader on for him. “I’ll look for anything, _sure_ , what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to—” Shane observed the thermal reader, staring at every inch of it as if to see if it worked properly or if there’s some sort of trick to it. “The _employees_ _only_ room to find Aria. Listen, keep yourself distracted for as long as you can. Stay away from anything that makes you most uncomfortable, the vase had zero effect on you. The tools did. Do you understand?”

Holy shit. Was Ryan hearing right?

He shoved a finger in his ear to see if he had any dirt clogging it. “Are you—Shane, are you seriously using me as a _walking thermal reader_?”

“If that’s how paranormal-ghost-believers see it, then sure,” whirling around, Shane walked towards the _employees only_ area and momentarily lifted a finger to Ryan, “if you feel or see anything. Yell for me immediately, do not—and I mean it, Bergara— _do not_ force yourself to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Like that, Ryan was left alone with the thermal reader’s buzzing sound fading away with every step. He clutched his jacket, holding himself as his eyes scanned his surroundings. Ryan felt the isolation right away, with Shane gone, Ryan had no armor to joke or laugh with.

Next to the vase, Ryan turned to the other side and walked over to the boxes of clothing and electronics. It was fine, this was okay. He still felt apprehensive, yet, he knew that it was most likely from Shane leaving him alone than anything else.

Surprisingly, it felt unnatural. Almost as if Shane’s presence was becoming a norm in his life. 

Ryan sighed, glaring at the filled boxes of unorganized appliances. That would be too obvious.

He looked down, crouching and refusing to touch the floor. He searched the areas separating the boxes to other antiques. Trying not to touch them, Ryan moved from the ground to other places around the store. 

He was good at this, he thought. Curly would praise him often for finding things that he’s lost in their apartment before. Ryan knew that the more he let himself _feel,_ the smoother this search would be.

It would be easier if he _felt_ anything besides turmoil.

Aside from the tools from earlier, Ryan felt jack-shit. He kept his eyes open, surveyed left to right, down to up and... nothing. It wasn’t his fault, the store was advertised as a maze—and most of the tight spaces he searched for hadn’t existed to begin with. Unlike a _house_ , he dealt with tile flooring and no bathroom or access to anywhere else, Ryan was constricted. The store wasn’t the best, it was dusty and the objects scattered around only fed the idea that it would take a while for anything to be found.

He heard nothing after Shane and himself had separated either. Was this a prank? Ryan wouldn't put it past Shane to try to prank him. However, Shane _was_ dedicated to his job that he wouldn’t fool around with Ryan if he _knew_ that it could potentially land them both headfirst into danger.

....Would he?

Looking around stupidly, Ryan shrugged and bent down again. Running his fingers over the glass case that held objects and trinkets alike. He explored a shelf of Wiccan books, alongside decks of tarot cards both brand new and used. He kept his eyes opened until he found himself staring at a jewelry stand; rosaries and necklaces hung from its branches, stretching out towards the end of the table. 

He was about to search through one of the shelves before a hand was placed on his shoulder. 

Startled, Ryan shrieked loudly. Arms moved to protect himself and backed away from the person who touched him. He settled down before his eyes landed on a woman shorter than him and an equally astonished expression on her face.

“I—Aria?”

The woman’s features softened, nodding her head. She wore burgundy robes, layers of gold and chains over her shoulders, waistline and neck. A shawl covered her head, though strands of black hair snuck through, and when she spoke, her accent was strong, “yes. Are you Ryan Bergara?”

“Y—yes. Sorry, I must have scared you,” he apologized, straightening up. “I was looking around, I did not hear you when we first came in.”

She smiled, her teeth on display as did the wrinkles on her forehead, “I did not hear you either. I’m sorry, you said ‘we’?”

Making his entrance, Shane jogged his way back to the front of the store with the thermal reader in hand. He stared at Aria for a moment before he saw Ryan, “I heard you scream, what happened?”

“Nothing—nothing, it was a misunderstanding. Shane, this is Aria,” Ryan introduced, as Aria stretched out her hand for Shane to shake. He did, respectfully amiably towards her. 

“Taller than I expected,” Aria, stunned at her own self reaching Shane’s waistline. “I was not expecting you both.”

Ryan could understand why she hadn’t been out in the open, looking through the window for an amateur investigator and _an_ actual giant. He had been hesitant to believe any word that she had said to him because it had been too good to be true, and yet, he was standing in a shop surrounded by objects he knew not to interact with.

“You called at the right time,” Shane ensured, he dug through his jacket and unfolded a piece of paper. Ryan could make up his handwriting; when Steven had told them about the manufacturer outside of Chicago, Ryan took it upon himself to write any misinformation down to ask Aria about it. “Your shop is linked to the Roseberry case, you are familiar, yes?”

“Yes, right,” Aria replied, her accent thick and mellow. She was calm, gesticulating towards the _employees only_ area, “let’s talk. I could make you tea, perhaps some coffee?”

Shane stood still, “I’d like to ask a few questions, we’ll be quick. My partner here isn’t too fond of this place.”

“ _Shane_ ,” Ryan hissed with no luck, Shane stared at Aria blatantly as she processed what had been said to her. It was to be expected out of Mr. Madej, and Ryan had been told ahead of time that'd he'd act like an ass, but he was still taken aback. He smiled timidly at her, yet, Aria didn't seem to be bothered.

Finally, Aria lit up, “right, of course!" She looked at Ryan, "if it's not a bother, I’ve heard that you may have extrasensory perception, is that true?”

“No, no,” Ryan politely denied, smiling at Aria and mentally shooting glares at Shane.

“A seer?”

Ryan opened his mouth to reply when Shane interrupted, “you're right. He can trace auras from humans and—possibly the environment around him. If you don’t mind me asking, do you have a permit for those tools? It is protocol to have a warrant in hand, you know, to be safe.”

Shane plastered a smile on his face when Aria turned her head, side-stepping to physically see the box of tools on the other side of the shop. “Yes, I do. I only sell such items to anyone of age. My mother opened shop decades ago and anything after '84, I have written down or kept track of. Except—”

Without having to hear what she’ll say next, Ryan reached for his backpack, taking out the polaroid pictures from the Roseberry house. He shuffled through the first few, careful to hide the victims from Aria, and flipped through until he found photographs of Mary and Isabelle’s necklaces.

“Except... These?”

Aria frowned, extending her hand to receive them. She placed them on a table closest to her, spreading them out and put her glasses over her eyes. “I bought these from a Manhattan company in ‘78. A man,” she looked at them, on her tippy-toes, she motioned over her head and beneath Shane’s chin, “this tall. He bought jewelry, a bulk of it. And took all the necklaces I had on stock, including these two. Around a year or two later.”

“How can you tell?” Ryan asked, “I mean… there has to be something about them that stands out to you.”

Aria narrowed her eyes, she gathered the polaroids and stacked them together before looking through them again. 

“Here,” she pointed at a picture forensics took. The locket in Isabelle’s, one that had been lying face-down on the dresser. “See that mark on the side of the pendant?”

They had to lean further down to the table to see before Ryan could make out anything. He hadn’t inspected the pendants up close, considering that they had been _cursed_ in the first place. Still, Aria was pointing on the pendant's padlock, where a picture could be placed inside.

“I bought around twenty... maybe twenty-five of them. Most of them had difficulties with the lock. I’ve given up on closing them and _keeping them_ closed. This one has the mark I gave it years ago, indicating that it can’t close properly.”

Ryan squinted his eyes, making sure he wasn’t imagining the purple mark on the side of the lock. Before he could think about it, Aria pulled out another polaroid, this one had been Mary’s; purple mark.

“Cursed objects are stolen from their owners. The locket couldn’t hold a picture or a lock of hair, or as small as a nail clipping. Mr. Bergara,” Aria paused, “could it be this was an unsuccessful attempt to a curse?”

Ryan nodded, “could be. If the person loses their connection to the victim. I thought these necklaces had been used in a ritual. Maybe they failed to conjure a curse.”

“The perpetuator had murdered the sisters in frustration because their initial plan hadn’t worked. Probably, similar to Amari,” Shane murmured to himself, without looking away from the pictures, he took one of them and walked away from Aria and Ryan.

Ryan’s eyes followed him for a second before he turned to Aria, “and you said you keep track of your customers?”

“I don't have many,” Aria laughed, her eyes crinkled as she rested her chin on her hand. “I ask for identification from my customers, especially if they have bought any equipment from me. It’s confidential.”

Nodding his head, Ryan felt Shane’s presence behind him. “Thank you for your time. I'm afraid we have to return back to the office,” Shane said, picking up the pictures up from the table, and looked down at Ryan. “Steven is leaving for Manhattan tonight, we have to catch up with him before his flight. Aria, if you could join us for an interrogation tomorrow morning, that'd be lovely.”

She bobbed her head, “I'm sorry I wasn’t much help.”

“You helped plenty!” Ryan reassured her, he waved his hands to console her. He didn't have much time before Shane offered his thanks and left through the front door. He adjusted his backpack and dug through his pant pocket to take out a card, “contact me if anything happens.”

Aria thanked him on his way out. Closing the door behind him, Ryan caught up with Shane. 

Ryan jogged to the passenger side, “well? Is it her?”

"No, it's not her. Why would she incriminate herself?" Shane twirled his car keys in his right hand, he loomed over the car, and leant on the side of the car, “hey, Ryan, have you ever shot a gun before?”

Nervously, Ryan let out a chuckle and recalled several evenings where Shane’s name had been broadcasted after shooting a gun incorrectly, “no? I never thought I needed to.”

Reaching for the driver’s door of his Ford, Shane raised his eyebrows at him over the roof of the car, “really? Didn't think you need to—why’s that?”

In Ryan’s head, he thought of two things that he could give out as an answer. One. The killer they are hunting isn’t—maybe, possibly—human. How could he protect himself with bullets that couldn’t do anything to something like a _demon_? 

(And he’d go on a tangent of how they’ll need holy water bullets to help them out with _that._ )

Ryan saved him the trouble to hear that after that they'd found and decided that the second answer would have been most appropriate.

“I didn't think I needed to,” he repeated, crossing his arms over the roof of the Ford, resting his head there, “why should I when I have you to do it for me?”

Ryan had expected a laugh, maybe a joke or two about how outlandish he was. And yet, Shane kept his silence, forehead furrowed as he shook his head, “you—are something else, Bergara.”

With that, Shane opened the car door, unlocked it for Ryan and drove off to the office. They had work to do. (No guns involved.)

* * *

A week after meeting Aria, Ryan found himself in the meeting room again.

Aside from phone calls that left a resonating echo from the familiar ring that roamed through the office, it had been quiet for several days. Ryan watched as Steven groaned, closing the door of the meeting room to block out the telephone ringing and returned to his side. They often found solace in the room, spacious, and tranquil enough for all of them to concentrate on their work. 

(The lights would flicker occasionally because:

“Andrew wouldn’t fix them,” Steven said with a crinkle of his nose, “he’s messing around with me.”)

Speaking of, Steven worked out in the field this week. Coming back to the office after being in New York was a relief, though, his trip had been a waste of time, the manufacturer discontinued their production of jewelry, leaving Shane and himself to trust Aria's words. Shane came around eventually, strictly adamant that Aria was innocent and called her to obtain more information from her, though again, led to a dead-end. Steven—coming back to Ryan and Shane looking at him with a look that read _we’ve got nothing_ was something to behold. Nobody was angry... correction, Steven and Devon weren’t angry. 

(Kelsey being angry was an understatement, she was fuming but she understood.)

“How long do you have left until your sanity reaches its breaking point?” Steven threaded a hand through his platinum hair, swaying on his feet near the exit. With no response from the team, he met Ryan’s eyes, “Bergara?”

Before he could answer, Devon exhaled, eyes glued to the paperwork she had before her, “not all of our calls are for our case. Three million people live in Chicago, Stevie.”

“ _Bergara_ ,” Steven pleaded, almost begging for Ryan to back him up. He opened his mouth only to be interrupted _again_.

“I knew this would happen,” Shane spoke from his corner of the room, sitting with his leg over his thigh and printed documents on his lap. He didn't look up as he reached for his head, tucking a part of his hair behind his ear before removing an earplug. “Bought these years ago.”

Steven didn't throw said earplugs across the room, all he could do is turn to Shane blankly, “what are you reading?”

“These?” Shane lifted the pages from his thigh. They were black and white from where Ryan could see, lots of text with cut-off corners that indicated that Shane had printed them out himself. He’s done this before for research purposes that led to nothing but confused looks. “Aria had wonderful knowledge about clairvoyance. I’m reading ‘bout gifted psychics and how they perceive the world around them. It’s bullshit, but hey, why not give it a try?”

Shane smiled, then returned to his routinely poker-faced expression before plugging his ear from the ringing outside of the meeting room. Ryan wondered how Shane had become best buds with Aria in a short-amount of time, then again, he knew that she loved to talk his ear about Ryan's 'supposed' gift.

“Our sanity,” Steven croaked softly, “it has already reached its breaking point.”

Ryan couldn’t argue with that, despite his silence, he mentally shrugged and watched as Steven fell back into the chair next to him. Acting as if he’s given up, he hunched his shoulders, “please tell me you have something.”

“Uh,” Ryan looked at his own work as if it would voice the answers he wanted, “no…?”

Steven lowered his head.

“ _But_! But—” Ryan forced a smile as he shook his hands, standing from his chair and bending over to the piece of evidence he’s been looking at. Nobody in the room moved as he congregated the evidence from Amari’s house. There was a lot to unpack in their home, however, in Shane’s viewpoint, he knew that wasn’t _always_ a plus for them. 

Studying satanic symbolism was frowned upon to anyone who knew Ryan or mediums he spoke to. Curly advised him not to try and decipher in dread that he would invite evil into his life and lots of spirititas in Chicago refused to talk about it. They recommended books for him to rent and read about on his own time that led him to late-nights trying to translate the loosely drawn sigils.

He wasn’t an expert, he knew this. 

Ryan held a picture of the wall of Amari’s house, a copy of what the original once was, coated in Ryan’s handwriting from a sharpie. He didn't think to trace or linger on them for so long, spending at least two minutes with each one until he moved to the next.

“This,” Ryan pointed at the picture repeatedly, gaining Steven’s attention, “I’ve read books about witchcraft and symbolism for summoning entities. I can’t be sure they are credible but most had pointed out that when a ritual has taken place, there is a possibility of evil spirits—ghosts—infesting a location or person.”

“Why are you showing me _that_ ,” Steven rubbed his forehead, “I know this, I spoke to the public about it.”

“I know. I—” Ryan inhaled, “I _might_ have revisited it to translate what it said and try to figure out what the killer was trying to summon?”

Minutes before, nobody was interested in his rambling. All eyes glared at him, Shane’s especially—who had _earplugs_ on but had a sixth sense for Ryan’s stupidity.

“Ryan, please tell me you didn't,” Devon, the reasonable one, lifted her head. Tapping the end of her pen on the table, she softened her features briefly when Ryan dug through his backpack.

“I went to the library,” he went on, carrying a stack of books from various authors who published about the topic, “and Shane had given me the idea about this doll from Connecticut and—they all had different opinions and outlooks about the afterlife, demons and so forth.”

He placed the books down on the meeting room table, once collecting dust on a shelf in the public library and now used as a source for a homicide investigation. He turned to the pages he bookmarked in every book, highlighting an interesting detail before Shane stood from his chair. 

“I thought this shit was dangerous,” Shane walked to his side, he skimmed through one of the pages before flipping to the next. Shane had been one of the first who knew of Curly's reluctance to assist with anything like this, so, his concern hadn't been out of nowhere, “and you’re just—reading about it to _translate_ it? Also you _went_ to the library?”

“It’s not English, I can’t translate it. That’s the thing—”

“Bergara, you know that we can’t use this as evidence. I don’t think being bias—”

“No you don’t understand,” Ryan insisted, layering the books over each other to reveal the highlighted mark on each of them. “I read _all_ of these books, they’re _different_. One author thinks that writing on human skin could work, two believe that symbolism is useless without a sacrifice and others had… disturbing opinions but listen, _translating_ summoning rituals is not possible but the sigils can be recognized to make up a sentence.”

“And you recognize these?” Steven held the picture of Amari’s house to the books, each with pictures of sigils almost similar to the one in the picture. 

“They’re sigils, that’s true,” Ryan urged not to trace his finger on the picture, every line and curvature crafted to invite evil that he did _not_ want to deal with in any lifetime. “Maybe they’re real, maybe they have meaning. It’s just, not _together_. These, in this order—” Ryan pointed at the picture, “most likely translate to something incoherent.”

“Thus making it… ineffective?”

“These authors don’t think the same way, still, they all have one common attribute. You can’t spray-paint demonic sigils on a wall and expect it to _work_ , you have to know how to draw them, to finish them and arrange them in a specific order. Otherwise, it is sacrilegious to those who are practitioners,” Ryan looked at the books in front of him, “I think the culprit made them up and just... drew them.”

“Impulsively,” Shane murmured to himself, holding the side of one of the books to inspect them closer. “Starting to think our assailant has a running theme going on.”

“It’s something I kind of thought was true, didn't think it would change anything,” Ryan confessed, shrugging to himself, “I could be completely wrong—”

“You didn't feel anything in the Amari house, right?” Shane inquired, “like… you felt nothing?”

Ryan nibbled on his lip, it was hard to say. He doesn’t remember much from the Amari house investigation aside from sneaking into the house from the backdoor and discovering the decapitated head from the victim on a whim. Shock from encountering a corpse for the first time was all he felt at the time—maybe he’s right and nothing lingered in that house for too long. Especially since Ryan’s been to locations where he’s felt worse from a _ghost_.

“I don't remember. I honestly think it failed and if Aria is telling us the truth, so did the ‘curse’ on the Roseberry daughters, and...” Ryan squared his shoulders, “we’re looking for a human who takes advantage of the practice of dark magic. It may be harmful for said person and others around them.”

Nobody said a word, Steven flipped through pages of Ryan’s books as Devon discarded her work to review Ryan’s notes. Shane had his eyes on him, holding himself with his arm and the other on his hip, “this is good. We can use this.”

Well, that’s what Ryan was hoping for. All those late-night researching and reading pages upon pages of several author's insights on the paranormal paid off somewhat. Only…

Turning over his shoulder, Ryan gulped and faced his concerns. He must have shown it on his face because Shane pulled him aside, hand on his forearm and led him towards the exit of the meeting room. Standing in the same place where he had been intimidated months ago, Shane closed the door and welcomed the constant ringing of the telephone from the hallway leading to offices. “What’s on your mind?”

Ryan’s face flushed, his body temperature rose under Shane’s lingering gaze. He felt a hand on his bare forearm, uncannily close to his hand. “Hey, tell me, what’s wrong?”

There it was, the _hushed_ voice coming from Shane. His looming height before Ryan and he had no choice but to look up to meet his eyes. “Remember when you asked me if I ever had to shoot a gun?”

“I’m young, Ryan. Not sure if I’m able to forget about things like that at this age,” Shane joked, his tone impeccably sweet and muted. If Ryan was further away from him, he probably wouldn’t have heard him.

“Please don’t make fun of me, I think… I told you that it’s impossible for a human to physically harm others with dark magic and still be alive. I… I do think that we’re looking for a human who failed in summoning a demon. We are dealing with a human who had killed to cover their tracks after they failed to summon a demon or curse the sisters.”

“Ryan—”

“And I know that I tried to look at this case from another perspective,” Ryan breathed, “I don’t think this is a demon. I’ve never seen one but I’ve talked to people, heard their stories and this isn’t _close_ to what it’s like. That gun—I think you need to teach me how to use one because—”

“Ryan, Ryan,” Shane let go of his forearm, placing both hands on his shoulders instead, drawing him closer, “hey, man. It's okay. Take a breather. I’m not going to make fun of you. You are doing fine.”

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

“Who gives a fuck what I think? I don’t know shit about _any_ of this,” Shane gestured for him to inhale, then exhale, to which Ryan had done. On the edge of a panic attack, Ryan pushed away the fact that they’ve been chasing a _human_ serial killer that was on the loose and Ryan—god his name was plastered all over this case. He has a _family_.

“I wouldn’t have connected the dots if you weren’t here,” Shane caressed his shoulder with his thumbs, “Ryan, I would have discarded everything you looked into as irrelevant killer behavior.”

Shane didn't let go of him, his downcast eyes set on Ryan’s face, and his voice lowered, ”it’s okay, I won't let anything happen to you or your family.”

Ryan’s mouth fell open, although what he planned to say ceased when he felt eyes on him. He looked away towards the entrance of the hallway, close to the offices stood Garrett. He had his shirt untucked and over his jeans, hair gelled upwards without a strand out of place. 

At first, Ryan thought something was awry but Garrett’s expression said otherwise. He grinned when Ryan’s gaze was on him, waving at them before walking attentively forward. If he hadn’t, Ryan wouldn’t have seen the police officer on his side, uniform neat and hands to his side. 

“I apologize for interrupting,” they spoke, directed at Shane and lifted his arm to gesture at Garrett. “He told Kelsey that he had information for the Roseberry case.”

He _what_?

“Right,” Shane replied, he let go of Ryan's shoulders, his hands hovered just in case Ryan would spiral out of control, “thank you. We’ll take care of it from here.”

The young officer nodded his head, looking at Garrett for a final time before turning his heels and walked towards the commotion of the department. Nobody murmured a word until he had disappeared from view, and Ryan felt anxious with every passing moment. 

“Well,” Shane began, jutting out his hip and holding his hand there, steadying himself and ready for an explanation, “did you lie?”

_He knew it_.

“If I hadn’t, Darragh wouldn’t have let me inside,” Garrett rubbed his chest, face contorted as if it caused him actual pain. Kelsey was difficult to converse with, she had virtuous intentions and had obviously seen what people are capable of. She did not mess around with anyone who could hinder her reputation and the fact that Garrett was able to squeeze his way from her grasp was in itself a surprise. “I hope I didn't catch you both at the wrong time.”

Ryan drew near, his body still felt tense, though he forced himself to unwind, “no, no, you didn't actually. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Garrett shoved his hands into his pant pockets, and shrugged his shoulders, “I didn't lie when I said I have something to say about _Parker_. It’s Lydia.”

Shane moved to his side then, lifted his chin as if at any moment he would bolt out of the office, “is she alright?” 

“She’s fine!” Garrett spluttered, “she… she flew back to Louisiana three days ago. After our… um, double-date night, she’s been having second thoughts about what she said about Susan.”

“So she left? Couldn’t she come down and talk to us?” Shane interrogated further, “don’t tell me the gal has secrets too.”

Garrett's eyes widened, “n—no, she tells me everything and I’ve met her family before, they’re harmless,” he defended, “she left to be with her mother and to speak with her about Susan. I got a call from her this morning, she takes back anything she said about her cousin and is staying in Louisiana for another few weeks.”

_That’s… weird_ , Ryan mused to himself. It’s understandable that Lydia doesn’t want to go against her wishes to grant her cousin peace and with Parker not here to speak for herself, she wouldn’t want to give such an image to her. “So… about her being atheist isn’t true?”

“Not… exactly?” Garrett pressed on, clenching his hands, “she said that Susan _was_ atheist but her affair with Daniel Amari isn’t true… her family had spoken behind Susan’s back for years, Lydia wants to end it. It’s not possible for her cousin to meet with a married man, even after all these years. She feels guilt, rightfully so.”

Ryan sighed, casting his eyes down to his shoes. As the days go on, he feels as if the case remains as convoluted as the first time he read about it. Susan Parker was killed in a fashion differently from all the other murders—she was killed ruthlessly and rapidly as if the killer didn't have time.

And didn't.

If there’s anything to go by, a revolting person hadn’t thought for a second before strangling a woman to death.

“We won’t dig into family gossip,” Shane said soberly, “we look for witnesses that backup forensic evidence. Parker’s involvement with atheism was confirmed by her colleagues but her affair… Mrs. Amari denied it and Mr. Amari had solid alibis that linked him to his workplace or his children’s school. There’s nothing to be ashamed of and I hope you could tell her that.”

Ryan watched as Garrett’s shoulders loosened, he was jittery this entire time and who could blame him? He lost a friend too, and he came here today to speak about her in a way that he wouldn’t imagine in a million years. “There’s… She doesn’t want to speak to you personally, she said…” Garrett continued, “her family will not continue to watch any press conferences or follow-up in any leads. Only until the killer is actually on trial will they reach out.”

At that, Garrett’s eyes looked at Ryan, “they really don’t like you, Bergara. I’m sorry.”

That’s okay, Ryan doesn’t like himself either.

He shrugged and gave him a pitiful smile when Shane’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. “The little guy can take it, we understand the family’s wishes and will not interfere. But—Garrett,” letting go of Ryan, Shane inched forward, “if we need to speak to Lydia, we’ll have to involve you too.”

Garrett huffed, his mouth curved upwards as he patted Shane’s back, “are you kidding? Me and you solving cases?” he shoved Shane to the side, his head bent to meet Ryan’s eyes, “with Ryan by our side? We’ll never get shit done. We used to be inseparable, can you believe that?”

“Used to?” Shane clutched his chest, “you wound me.”

Ryan laughed, “I believe it, thank you Garrett. We’ll let you know if we need anything from you or if I need to get rid of the big guy for a day.” 

Shane groaned, throwing his head backwards and with his long limbs, spread his arms around to catch himself from falling. Ryan didn't pay much attention to him as Garrett smiled at him, “how about now? You up for lunch?”

From the floor, “when am I not? Bet Ryan’s hungry too, I’ll get you a sandwich with chips, you okay with that?”

Of fucking _course_ Ryan was okay with free food, he nodded his head as Shane straightened up, gathering Garrett with his arm over his shoulder and pressing a disgusting, moist kiss on Ryan’s cheek before they set off together away from the office. 

Ryan rolled his eyes, whirling around and used the lapel of his brown jacket to wipe any saliva on his face. He gasped, unaware of Devon who stood by the door. She had one hand on the doorknob, keeping it open with her knee and in the background, he saw the lights flicker again.

Her eyes rounded, her ears grew crimson as she tried to comprehend what happened before her. Maybe Ryan had been tired, but he realized her shock as quick as she drew her lips together and cackled. 

Did… Did Shane Madej just kiss him goodbye?

Devon had a hard time keeping herself from laughing out loud, covering her mouth with her hand before exploding a series of chuckles. “I—” she let out another chuckle, “I can’t believe it. He’s done it _now_ , wait until Steven hears about this.”

She closed the door behind her, leaving Ryan outside, flush creeping up his face. Another moment passes before the door opens again, Devon’s smug face peeks through, “oh, come inside, we have something to discuss!”

Again, the door closes and Ryan gave himself a minute before he heard Steven’s voice booming from inside their office.

Shane Madej is dead meat.

...

All is forgiven and forgotten when Shane strolled back into the meeting room with a bag of food. He dismissed the contented looks from Devon and Steven as he placed their lunch in front of them. Ryan thought that he must have disregarded what he’s done until Shane planted his food on his side and poked his cheek. 

(Devon and Steven couldn't stop laughing for another ten minutes.)

They return to their work, respectfully. Steven left when Andrew came to pick him up for another shift around town and Devon headed home at six. It’s been like this for weeks, months now, a routine that’s left a mark in Ryan’s brain long enough that he could do it in his sleep. 

Most days he’d wake up to Shane knocking on his hotel room door, letting him in and they’d talk before heading to the office and work most of the day. Eat, work and repeat is what Ryan knew, until he’ll catch Shane’s car keys and drive them back to Ryan’s hotel. He doesn’t know where Shane lived, as if that in itself is a secret that he couldn’t unlock until level three of their friendship.

Ryan asked, of course, to which Shane admitted that he lived in a rented apartment with two other people. One of his friends and another a stranger looking for a room to accommodate him for school. He mentioned that he didn't stay long, using his own room and bathroom for simple tasks like ‘sleeping’ and ‘washing up.’ 

(The air quotes are needed, as Shane loved to emphasize anything he does.)

But sometimes—sometimes they don’t leave.

Sometimes an all-nighter broods over their worn-out shoulders and they’re left to sleep on the couch in the meeting room or _on_ one of the chairs left. They don’t mean to stay up all night, and still, it happens more often than not. The case had left a toll on Ryan’s sleeping schedule—if he actually had one before—it’s gone forever. 

Back home, Ryan’s family and Curly had scolded him for staying up late researching or reading ghost stories too late in the night. Which bit him in the ass as he wouldn’t be able to sleep after; his mind abounded with theories and how ghosts would—if they could—manifest in his room and scare him to death. 

It never happened, obviously, but it never stopped him from freaking himself out at four in the morning. In Chicago, it was different. Somewhat different.

Now that he firmly believed the killer was _human_ , he didn't have a lot of fear for the supernatural. Almost as if he was in shock for months, he looked back at the victims of his case and felt remorse. A human had done this—deluding everyone, including _him,_ a believer of the paranormal in wondering if an unearthly creature had done it.

He didn't need to look through said pictures, none of their bodies had residue of dark magic on them. Not even the sisters, who may or may _not_ have been cursed. Mary had nightmares frequently and as far as Ryan knew, Isabelle’s story led to a brick wall of questions without answers.

Ryan frowned, holding his head up with his hand, elbow propped on the wooden table and fingers stroking the edges of the polaroid in his free hand. In the dim light of the meeting room, he stared at his younger brother, smiling softly in a contrast to his older brother who held him in his arms and had a wide smile plastered on his face. The picture was taken years ago when Ryan went home for his brother’s birthday—when Jake was the around the age of the sisters whose lives were stolen.

Jake called him earlier, taking advantage of the time difference and his curfew at UC. Blabbering about his newfound friends and the major he’s pursuing, his classes (and how excessively cold the rooms were,) to his lunches and complaining about the prices of laundry detergent.

(Ryan told him to buy whichever he wanted, ready to write a check back home to him.

Jake laughed, and as humble as their parents, Ryan knew that he’ll go for the cheapest option no matter how much money he sends him.)

Nights like these, Ryan would reminisce and ask himself _what would he do if anything happened to his little brother_?

“Don’t torture yourself,” Shane’s eyes softened, not enough to cover his apathetic expression. He didn't have a lot to tolerate, much less looking over a hefty, gory homicide case in the middle of the night. “You can’t think like that. He’s the safest he’s ever been, we’re all working as best as we can to keep your family safe.”

“I know. He's still my baby brother, I can't help but worry about him,” Ryan uttered out, “do you want to see?”

Shane had been sitting across from him, his leg over his right one but with his height working as a disadvantage, he couldn’t exactly sit normally. He covered his mouth with his hand before leaning forward, threw the paperwork he had been reading back on the table and reached for the photograph. 

“He's a younger version of you.” Shane's eyes gleamed and his mouth turned upwards in a smirk, huffing, he went on: “what in the hell are you wearing?”

Offended, Ryan gaped, “a jersey! I’m a sports fan!”

“You are being swallowed up by it, what size was it?” Shane grinned when Ryan snatched his photo from him, “you look like a teenager.”

“I was in my early twenties,” Ryan grumbled, “I aged perfectly fine! You are just abnormally tall and look like you’ve hiked for twenty-four hours every day as a child.”

“Alright,” Shane exhaled through his nose, letting out an amused laugh and shook his head. He returned to his work without another insult to throw. Ryan wasn’t joking though, Shane had horrendous bags under his eyes, deep and purplish that could be mistaken as two bruised eyes. 

Does this man sleep?

Maybe not, Ryan had been by his side from day one.

Either way, Shane didn't look too bad. He wore clothes that fit him, showing off his legs with the same chinos but different colors, shirts untucked without the effort of trying to fix them and his jacket that kept him from catching a cold. Though, as someone who's used to the cold, Shane wouldn’t hesitate to wear sneakers on days that drop to fifty degrees. 

He kept to himself most of the time, but every time he spoke, he _knew_ what he was talking about. Almost as if he was thinking about what he planned to say next before opening his mouth and Ryan admired that, throwing looks to people who didn't think before speaking.

Guess that’s why the media is against him, he’s not afraid to speak the truth even if it counters his beliefs. 

Ryan took in the sight of his friend. His eyes downcast and mouth in a tight line, he didn't move or show any rigor on his face as he read. Recently taking an interest in telepathy; he read everything he could get his hands on without any arrogance in sight. 

(Later, when he talked about it, he recalled how stupid it was to him but when it came to Ryan’s weird ‘feelings’ in haunted locations. He didn't find it as inconspicuous.

“Are you doing this...” Ryan pointed at the article, “for me?”

Shane flipped through the pages, “I need to know how your fried brain works.”)

Suddenly, Shane’s sixth sense kicked in and he stopped, blinking and flicking his eyes upward. He caught Ryan staring at him, it was too fast to think about anything at the time so Ryan… continued to ogle. 

Hypnotized to the point of _I can’t seem to look away now_ , Ryan opened his mouth: “do you want to hear a case I read about?”

Shane’s face went blank, unsure as to how to reply to him. He looked away, focused his eyes on literally _anything_ but the person in front of him before he closed his binder and slid it over to the edge of the table. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“Uh… yes,” Ryan gave a bitter laugh and rubbed his clammy palms on his thighs, “this case is taking a toll on you and me, so I thought… maybe you'd like to hear something else.”

“Cancelling out a murder with another murder, I’m listening.”

Ryan lifted up his hands, “you can say _no_.”

“Come on, detective Bergara. Don’t get cold feet now,” the sound of a chair scraping the floor resonated in the quiet of the office as Shane stood up, walking to Ryan’s side and sitting beside him. He reached into his jacket, a soft blue ball that he’d squeeze in his hand during meetings, and nodded, “go on. Tell me.”

Ryan’s head turned to him, “It’s unsolved too, maybe you’ll figure it out.”

“You have a lot of faith in me,” Shane whispered, it was a joke really, but for some reason, Ryan didn't think it was too funny.

“I do,” a strand of his hair fell into his eyes, as his routine prevented him from having anything short of a five minute shower. His hair was gel-less, falling all over his forehead and curled from the humidity admitted after his shower. He smiled and proceeded to shake his papers neatly when Shane lifted his arm.

“This—”

Shane’s hand lingered over Ryan's forehead, he tucked away a strand of Ryan's hair over his ear and because Shane is weird, he brought out a paperclip, as if he were in the middle of a magic show. “Ta-da,” he sang softly, before sitting correctly in his chair and squeezing his stress ball, “a paperclip. Alright, I’m listening.”

Ryan’s heart was seconds away from popping out of his chest until he finally spoke and told Shane a case about a woman who married a man and lost her life on her honeymoon. Shane listened, he would joke and quip with Ryan, and at three in the morning, lay his head on Ryan's shoulder and fall asleep. 

Maybe—maybe they'll be okay.

In the morning, they’ll return to their routine, for now—anything to get Shane’s mind away from reality, anything to distract Ryan from what he fears the most—isn’t that what mattered?

* * *

“What do you think? Movie after breakfast?”

Shane turned from the busy road for a split second, “Ryan, it's five-thirty in the afternoon. And you're asking me _that_ in a stolen police car?”

“You said that Eugene was okay with you borrowing cars from officers,” Ryan gave him a thumbs up, knowing that it wasn’t true because Eugene _wasn’t_ the owner. 

After their all-nighter, they went their separate ways, exhausted and filled with ideas for other unsolved cases to read about. Ryan had plenty up his sleeve for them, and who would have thought, Shane _loved_ them. He got a kick out of them with ridiculous theories that Ryan brought up at the end, (because, really, zombies?)

They must have been on cloud nine, since… you know, Shane had forgotten his keys in the meeting room, was too lazy to walk back and stole a police car at five in the morning. Ryan reprimanded him, still grinning from ear to ear as he threatened to tell Kelsey that he was committing a _crime_ when Shane hushed him and drove them to Ryan’s hotel. 

Ryan had a second of bewilderment when he woke up at four in the afternoon with Shane outside, leaning on the car as if he had a plan as to what to say to Kelsey.

“Here’s what we’ll tell her,” Shane started, biting into his sandwich, “we’ll say… we were tired and didn't realize.”

“Didn't realize that you stole an officer’s car?” Ryan held his coffee cup, in the afternoon, though his tummy had begun to swell and ache, he decided against having another sip, “what is this _we_? This is all you.”

“You got in, man,” bringing up a good argument, Shane ate his fries, “you’re an accessory of robbery. We're felons, running from the law.”

“Nah, I’ve got a good idea of how that ends, turn on the radio, it’s a bit quiet out here.”

Weird, Chicago was known for being loud, construction on every corner that peaked over the skyscrapers that Ryan hasn’t gone into for the life of him. Shane would shake his head whenever he asked for a tour of downtown, and as a native Los Angelian, he understood. 

Shane rubbed his hands together, removing excess salt before tuned into the radio of the police car. “Was thinkin’ about visiting Aria. She wondered if we could help her with her afternoon delivery. Get a couple questions in, what do you think?”

Ryan was up for anything at this point, all of the caffeine had him buzzing with adrenaline and another late night with Shane. He was about to agree to his plan when the radio interrupted the song playing with a shrill male’s voice on the other line. They spoke too fast for Ryan to comprehend but it made Shane freeze on the spot.

His eyebrows furrowed, knocking away the bag of food on his lap and turned the volume… up? Shane didn't move as Ryan cautiously watched him, and for a second as the man on the other side repeated what Ryan could assume as an address, Shane’s jaw clenched and put the car in gear. 

Ryan was caught off-guard, holding onto himself as the car’s wheels squealed against the gravel and Shane, the most determined he’s ever seen, turned the police car lights on and drove hurriedly.

“What? What!” Ryan exclaimed over the sirens, “Shane! What!”

“They’re at Garrett’s house,” Shane growled, honking the horn and swore at those who didn't move out of the way, “they’re at fucking Garrett’s house.”

"Fuck! _Fuck_!" Shane swore again, turned his body over his seat and backed out to find another way. By then, Ryan was in a state of shock and his hand twitched, he was feeling fine all day—that probably meant that everything was fine. Everything was alright.

Ryan ignored Shane’s pleas as they headed to their friend’s house. 

Getting there wasn’t easy, locating Garrett’s house was. A gargle of police officers stood on his lawn, their driver’s side opened and upon the look on their faces when they spotted Shane of all people was something that they didn't expect. Ryan hated the sight of it all and brought him back to a month prior, knowing that a man had been murdered and immediately closed off a family’s house in a span of two hours.

Kelsey was there, of course she was, she always had the upper hand and probably had been dispatched by Yang. So this was a precaution thing maybe? She’s just checking the neighborhood—

She jogged to the car they were in, stopping Shane from driving into the house’s driveway and motioned to him. They got out, unaware of their doors enough to close them when Shane exploded.

“What the fuck is going on? Why is the radio blasting Garrett’s address? _Possible 187_?”

Kelsey bit her lip nervously, tucking a loose strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, “Shane, calm down, you’ve got to listen to me carefully,” she held out her hand to his forearm, right when Kelsey’s backup arrived with a roll of yellow tape in their hands. “We’ve got an anonymous tip that linked our suspect to this neighborhood, we’re here to investigate and—”

Slowly, Kelsey’s eyes peered to the house and to Ryan, “Marco! Look over Ryan for a second.”

One of the officers behind Kelsey lifted his head, eyeing Ryan before jogging to his side with a slight smile. He knew Marco by passing as he’s worked a floor or two above in the department. Before Ryan could react, he watched Kelsey pull Shane away from his side, albeit reluctantly as Shane turned his head over his shoulder before following behind Kelsey.

Garrett’s neighborhood wasn’t as quiet as the Roseberry’s or the Amari’s. And yet, Ryan didn't see anybody out in the streets on a Wednesday afternoon, so it couldn’t be possible if Garrett had been in danger if nobody had heard it before. Unless…

No, no, that’s impossible. Garrett’s fine, he and Ryan spoke days before and agreed to hang out this weekend. He was fine.

“You alright?”

Ryan shook his head unknowingly, laughing under his breath, “yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just… this is our friend. Do you think he’s hurt?”

“He’s not responding to our calls. We don’t have a warrant—” Marco shut his mouth when Ryan’s eyes filled with tears, he raised his hands and stuttered: “w—wait. That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry Ryan. We can't do anything right now. The door is locked, and has been barricaded from the inside. So Kelsey assumed forced entry—”

Barricaded...

Ryan lifted his head, “what do you mean?” He tiptoed over Marco’s shoulder, looking at the front door of Garrett’s house, where Kelsey stood with Shane, arms crossed over her chest and talking to him soberly. Ryan felt his palms sweat, he knew that Kelsey had undertaken lessons on situations like the one they're in right now—and his mind begged him to consider protocol to check the neighborhood and that Garrett is _fine_ —and had her eyes on Shane's mannerisms, prepared to compose Ryan's partner if necessary. He noted Shane’s behavior, a clear indication of _why isn’t anybody checking if Garrett and his roommate are alright_?

“I—it's…” Marco frowned, leaning on the side of the stolen vehicle and lifted his hand, which carried a radio that uttered disturbing static.

Ryan felt his face flare up and he balled his fists, “and you’re all standing around? Why—”

“Hey Marco! Come here for a sec!”

Hesitating, Marco turned his shoulder and replied to his coworker about ‘watching Ryan.’ This is ridiculous, there’s something going on inside of that house and if the front door had been _barricaded_... god knows what is going on inside of that house—

Wait. Someone barricaded the front door, and forced themselves inside the house. There’s—there’s a backdoor—he could. No, Ryan couldn’t do that, he couldn’t betray his promise to Kelsey and Shane by throwing himself headlong into danger. But then again, Garrett was his friend, he was nice and he didn't—he could be screaming for help. 

He had to. He really had to. 

Sorry, Shane.

“Go,” Ryan gestured with his chin at Marco, “I’ll be in the car. To—calm down. I won’t leave.”

Marco didn't seem to buy it, yet, his head bobbed, “stay here, I’ll be right back. Kelsey will be here in a moment—don't go anywhere.”

What is he doing? How did he get to this point in his life? Turning his heel, he headed towards Garrett’s backyard and bent down to hide from the officers around the area. What is he thinking?

Stretching his hands over Garrett’s fence, he jumped over it discreetly and praised himself for not skipping arm days. Crouching, he avoided piles of leaves and walked towards the porch of Garrett’s backdoor. He prayed to _God_ , or any entity more powerful than Ryan, that he wouldn’t run into a stranger.

Demon or human, Ryan wasn’t planning to die today. He grounded his feet as he stepped onto the balcony, cursed as he shrugged off his jacket and welcomed Chicago’s freezing air. Shuddering, he tied his jacket over his hand and twisted the backdoor knob, as he suspected, it didn't budge. 

“Fuck,” Ryan swore, reaching for his back pocket, sirens from the street alerted him and he bent his knees to hide himself from sight. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he swore under his breath repeatedly as he struggled to pick the lock with the paperclip that Shane had given him from the office last night.

He knew he should have listened to Steven when he mentioned _how_ to pick a fucking lock. Ryan heard the _click_ of the backdoor when tires of police cars screeched on the street in front of Garrett’s house. He didn't wait another second before he opened the backdoor and… ran inside.

Suddenly terrified, with the sound of his beating heart as his companion, Ryan stared at the backdoor with his eyes. He was too afraid to turn around in the darkness of the kitchen, but what had rendered him motionless was the scent of iron in the air. 

What the _fuck_ is he doing?

A killer could be in the house right now, and Ryan… Ryan was fucking in the middle of it. Reciting the prayer his father told him as a child, Ryan’s eyes moved to spot a weapon to use for himself and… turned around when he couldn’t find one. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, there wasn’t anything in the kitchen.

He couldn’t ignore the bloody handprint on the slide door. 

“Garrett?” Eyes moved all around the kitchen for any clues and gradually walked out of the kitchen, his boots squeaked on the hardwood floor before he peered into the living room. 

Nothing. No exorcism, no spell or conjuring demon could prepare him for what he witnessed.

The living room was brighter, the lamp in the corner of the room turned on while everything was off. The lights from the police cars nearby had blinded Ryan as he wordlessly gasped—he refused to scream to alert anybody in the house. If they were still there. But they… they were brutal to his friend. 

On the couch, Garrett lied horizontally, face butchered in and left in a gory, malicious mess. His limbs spread out towards the floor, where blood had been splattered and dried, remnants of Garrett’s blood lingered on his fingers and dripped to the carpet. 

He couldn’t take it, covering his mouth with his hand and screamed into it. He barely heard the sound of the front door opening, and his brain stopped his grief to look for a place to hide—before he could move, a pair of arms wrapped around him towards a warm body and he actually _screamed_.

Briefly, his howl echoed through the house before the person who had grabbed him covered the noise he made with their chest. Ryan wanted to fight, but this person was human and he knew… he knew that smell, his arms and the gray sweater. The denim jacket was a dead giveaway, and Ryan relaxed in Shane’s arms. 

“Oh _thank god_ —It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here,” Shane repeated, whispering into Ryan’s hair, he couldn’t tell if it was for him or for himself. Shane manhandled them to the hallway out of the living room, following the footsteps of people who probably followed Shane inside of the house. 

“I’m here.”

Ryan hid his agonizing sobs into Shane’s chest, practically burying himself deeper into him and covering his face with his denim jacket. At the same time, Shane echoed his comforts into the dip of Ryan’s neck before removing Ryan away from his chest, pushing him arms length.

Ryan expected yelling, chastising and a punch in the face. Instead, he was face-to-face with the expression of a guilt-ridden man, a tearful Shane Madej with his frown, his pupils blown as he carefully looked over Ryan. It was then, Ryan realized that he was looking for an injury on him. 

He wanted to see, he wanted to confirm that he wasn’t in the middle of a nightmare. He wanted to, so _bad_ , but Shane had him before he could try. Exhaling shakily, Shane’s hands reached for Ryan’s cheeks, his thumb stroking his cheekbone and holding him upright. “Look at me, don’t look over there. Look at me.”

And Ryan did. He sobbed as he blinked his tears as he made eye contact with Shane. He’ll never forget the grief that had struck Shane in the stomach, how his eyes had naturally crinkled as he smiled and how he—he looked absolutely devastated. 

“I was so—I was scared. I was _terrified_. I couldn’t find you, I really—I really thought—” Shane embraced him, holding him tightly to his body, “don’t look—look at me, Ryan. Look at me.”

But Ryan had closed his eyes, crying silently as he turned his head towards the hallway and listened to Shane’s intense heartbeat. Relaxing in Shane’s arms, his hand rubbed Ryan’s back and again, hid his face into Ryan’s hair. He cried into him, muttering to him about being able to convince Kelsey to storm the house and to find Ryan missing, it had shaken him up.

“I’m sorry,” and Ryan meant it. He really had done it this time, and all his bravery had been thrown out the window. He didn't mean to scare Shane, he didn't mean to find Garrett. He wanted to help, he did. But his efforts had been useless, his friend was dead and he had run into the crossfire without thinking about how it would have affected others.

He was dead.

“Don’t do that again,” Shane spoke into his neck, “not now, not right now. Not when Garrett’s gone, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

Garrett was dead.

Inhaling a shaky breath, “I can’t lose you too.”

The sound of footsteps around them dimmed, and Ryan focused on Shane’s cries in the silence of the hallway. He opened his eyes, unbeknownst to him and held Shane as he stared at the window, wide open and welcoming the cold into the crime scene. The light illuminated the piece of paper on the window, in bright letters, Ryan read as Shane trembled:

_Ryan Bergara,_

_you have a beautiful family. Shame if anything happened to them_

_Shane Madej close the case or I'll kill again_

_and again_

_and again_

_and again_

_and again  
_

_ **END OF PART I** _


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is!!! Part two has begun!!!!!! Lots have happened in the last three weeks, it's CRAZY. The boys are BACK with the spooky season ooooo. I hope you enjoy this slight short chapter! Tomorrow is another update ready to go! :-)
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has been reading this story, (we hit 1000 hits! WOW) and I really appreciate it! Means the world to me, I hope you all continue to enjoy this story as we enter the second part! Anyways, enjoy! See you tomorrow o/

**PART TWO**

**NOVEMBER 1988**   
**Chicago, Illinois**

... _Today on Eyewitness News, the notorious crime of two sisters, a woman and two men led to a dead-end. Steven Lim spoke with us today about the adjourned press conference and confirmed private investigator Shane Madej's hiatus after Garrett Wren had been senselessly murdered in September. Activists in Chicago gathered in front of the Justice Department of Investigations earlier last week in attempts to fire Madej.  
  
News on paranormal investigator Ryan Bergara remains under wraps. Reporter Jennifer Cooper on the scene._

...

Knocking started him awake.

Breathless, Ryan’s eyes snapped open as his body trembled with the newfound chill emitting from the room's windows. He was laying on his side, cheek pressed to his pillow and sweat dripped down his forehead. By now, the knocking on his door would have stopped after the third time, though, Ryan kept his body still when the fourth knock resounded in his hotel room, followed by the soft voice announcing herself as the housekeeper.

She came around one in the afternoon. Did he sleep _through_ the night?

With his nightmares?

His mouth was dry when he opened it to reply, a hoarse murmur of: “it’s okay, I wasn’t here last night. Take a break for today.”

A justifiable lie, one that was gratuitous for everyone involved. He waited until she answered back to him before her footsteps were replaced by those of the police officer in front of his door. Moving to his back, Ryan let out a shaky breath and pressed his closed fist to his bare chest—it was what he feared, the beat of his heart beat irregularly.

And still, he never could recall his nightmare. At first it had been of Garrett and how Ryan had found him in his own house, then it evolved a intricate series of events that involved him, Garrett and a blurred image of a man that Ryan assumed was Shane. He remembered several, not all—all of which his friends would lose their lives brutally. 

Two months after Garrett’s murder, Ryan willingly stepped down from the case under Eugene’s orders. He was offered immunity until the case would close, his family kept safe and he'd return back to normalcy after a few months, at most, in seclusion. Ryan knew it was for his safety, but he couldn't give less of a shit about himself. His family was now involved, and with their assailant forthright with threats towards them, Ryan took it upon himself to stop all efforts in solving the case. In the end, Eugene sat him down in his office and told him that he could leave anytime he wanted to.

Ryan thought about it. Of course he would. He missed his younger brother, his mother and father. Curly and his grandmother were waiting for him, too. All the people who loved him and in return had his love, people that he’s helped and those who he grew up with. They were all in California, away from homicide and—

He couldn't.

If he did, he couldn’t see his friends or his family in fear that whatever this was—supernatural or not—wouldn’t follow him to terrorize them. To hurt him and _god_ , his family. His nightmares plagued him already; an unknown menace that he kept to himself in the night and never spoke a whisper of to anyone.

Not even to Shane.

Shane, who Ryan hasn’t seen for a month and a half.

With a halt on the Roseberry case, Shane Madej’s name was plastered in newspapers as an investigator who couldn’t solve a murder case as 'ordinary' as this one. He appeared to the media after Garrett’s funeral, Ryan by his side and apologized to everyone who he wronged.

(At the time, Ryan wanted to throttle him. Stuck in his mind that he’s done _nothing_ wrong, instead, he’s been helpful and _listened_ to Ryan’s theories with an open mind. He tried.

He tried. And he was criticized for extending their case this long.

He was blamed for his friend’s murder. And he was convinced it was true.)

Quivering, Ryan rose from the bed, blinking away the sudden change of light in the room. He squinted in search of his glasses, pushing them above the bridge of his nose and sat on the soft sheets. It was quiet, the sound of the television kept him company during restless nights, afraid of the dark and his own thoughts. 

Anything unnerved him; he considered therapy, to which Shane urged him that he should definitely consider doing sometime in the future. Still, remembering anything in the past few months was traumatic in itself, but without Shane by his side, it had become unbearable.

He tried his best to distract himself, anything that wouldn’t make him lose his sanity whenever he read or watched about it. Well, a new day, another boring afternoon it is.

Ryan washed, dressed and kept himself occupied. With nothing left to do, he thought about calling Curly when he heard a knock on his door. 

Perplexed, he turned his head towards the noise as his body uptight. He was too close to the door, it was possible that the housekeeper returned but the knock didn't continue for a while. Knowing full well that security wouldn’t let anything happen to him, Ryan took a step back from the door, feeling a lot more alarmed with the open blinds looking into the room. 

“Ryan,” a voice called for him through the other side, “it’s me, Devon. Are you asleep?”

Despite the familiar tone of her voice, Ryan winced and stood still. For a brief second he fought the urge to reply to her—for her to leave him alone in the bitter silence of the room. But… if this was a lead that they couldn’t ignore, Ryan wasn’t going to stay in the dark about it.

“No,” he exhaled, “I’m awake.” 

He rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses on, reaching for the doorknob of his hotel room. On the other side was Devon, just like he expected her. She looked up at him, short curly hair framed her face as her expression perked with the sight of him. He knew that he wasn’t presentable at the moment, and to be a better host, he ruffled his black hair enough to press down on strands from sticking out.

Devon opened her mouth, a soft laugh escaped her before she stepped beside him into the room. She squinted in the darkness and turned on the light before dragging him away from the door. “How are you holding up? Whoa, what's with the hair? No gel?”

“Haha,” Ryan mocked gingerly, and though the thin strands of his hair draped over his forehead, he shrugged off her joke. He mentally noted that she was dressed differently from any other day at the office. It was Tuesday, reminded by the news anchor on the television because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known. She was in casual wear, her white shirt tucked into denim jeans, burgundy boots to match and covered up from the cold ass weather outside.

Devon relaxed on his couch, from where she sat, Ryan felt her cool aura. She reeked of Chicago’s autumn, lingering in the air of Ryan’s room and he couldn’t stop himself from shivering. She hadn't changed, she’d always had a calming presence to her that intensified tenfold whenever they hung out. Deep, _deep_ down, Ryan trembled when he felt trepidation radiate from her. Noticing that Ryan ran his hands over his bare arms, she mumbled: “you know it’s cold out, why are you dressed like that?”

“Heaters exist,” he retorted, “why are you here? What happened?”

Ryan walked towards the warmest spot of his room, looking back at the moment Devon pressed on her thigh and fidgeted, “nothing. But that’s not much of a surprise. The case is at a stand-still, we are letting families mourn.”

“The killer is still out there,” he pointed out, sitting across from her on his half-folded bedsheets. (Why bother to make something you’ll lay on for the rest of the day anyway?) “It’s not right to do _nothing_.”

Silence pierced the room, the low volume on the television was all that he could hear as Devon rested her elbow on the sofa's arm and lifted her head up. He liked Devon, hell, she was the kindest person he’s ever met, optimistic and takes zero bullshit from her coworkers; most of the time he felt guilty for coming out as an asshole. Yet… this… the killer _was_ still out there.

“Sorry,” he meant it, full-heartedly.

“I know, you never have to say sorry to me,” Devon said in simple directness, “I work with the press Ryan, I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Ryan whispered under his breath, _déjà vu_ suddenly threw him off as he remembered the countless times he’s thought about Shane. 

Devon sighed, “our department stationed officers around Chicago’s borders for months, nothing. The authors you contacted reached out, they have nothing to say other than biased opinions. Garrett’s autopsy came in weeks ago, he—” she paused, looking at Ryan as he lowered his eyes, “I’m not here to talk about the case, Ryan.”

“I prefer not to talk about it either,” he stood, reaching for Devon’s shoulder and sitting next to her. “Sorry to bring it up. I'm just—how was your break?”

“Uh, _decent_ , I guess? I—I came to see you and how you were doing. Kelsey told me you’re on leave,” she confessed, turning her body to face him, her coat still on her and caressing against his shirt. She was so cold, colder than she’s ever been before. She observed his room, unbiased towards the mess on the table next to her, she smiled at the empty take-out boxes, “at least I know you’re eating.”

Ryan beamed, seeing as Devon is his chosen sister at best. He's never had one, nor did he grow up with a sister, she (and Kelsey) had been the closest he's gotten to a sister, and he nodded his head enthusiastically. “What have you been up to?”

“Traveling,” Devon informed him, “visiting family, friends. I came back two days ago from New York and reached out to our team. It’s so quiet there now.”

“Did Andrew fix the light?”

Devon shook her head, the corners of her mouth curved upwards and held in a laugh, “I don’t think he will unless someone annoys him about it.”

_But Steven has been annoying him about it,_ he wanted to quip, though he stopped himself and bobbed his head.

Ryan missed those days. Meetings at the office were seamlessly his favorite time of the day or the _worst._ On a lucky day, they’ll be too exhausted and irritated with each other to speak and yet... more often than not, they’d bicker for hours before getting their work done to go home. He hated the lights, the chairs and the stuffy atmosphere of the room after the second hour but he desperately wanted _one_ day of his friends pretending that everything wasn’t going awry.

"Could have sworn Steven would try," Ryan muttered out, he leant backwards towards the drywall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s why I’m here. Steven—Steven hasn’t been in the office. He reached out to me at first when I was in New York and only got to me a few days ago. Ryan—he—" Devon paused and fidgeted in her seat, she rubbed her clothed hands together to conserve heat, but her efforts would be futile and Ryan knew that. She was incredibly frigid, and her trepidation radiated towards Ryan; nothing like the migraines he got whenever Shane was frustrated, but he stared at his socks to ease the tingle in his head.

Finally, she spoke: "Nobody has been able to talk to Shane in weeks.”

Snapping out of his fictional daydream, Ryan raised his chin, “what? What are you talking about?”

“Ah… I was afraid you’d say that. You haven’t heard from him either?”

Fear crossed Ryan’s face instantly, he felt queasy at the thought of anything happening to Shane and he straightened up, “what—what do you mean they haven’t contacted him? What about his roommates? Please don’t joke around like this, not about him.”

“No, no, Ryan,” Devon held up her hands, she extended her arm, wrapping her fingers over his wrist and pulled, “he’s alive, he’s _alive_ , Ryan. Calm down. We’re worried about him, that’s all.”

The relief was instant, he shut his eyes and sat down. “I’m sorry I can’t be of any help,” he stated, it was the truth that he hasn’t gotten a glimpse of his friend in a while. From what Ryan knew, Shane was mourning and in the presence of both his family and friends. Time was what he needed, Ryan respected to give it to him as long as he needed it. 

“I’m not—I think you should see him.”

Unexpectedly, Ryan blinked and adjusted to the room’s light before raising his eyebrows, “I should… see him?”

Devon nodded, “he isolated himself before. When I was an intern, Shane had been assigned a case that left him in such a horrible state. He was fine at first, reaching out and talking but then disappeared. We worry for him and we think… Steven and I think that you are good for him.”

“Good for him…” 

“You’re his friend, he cares about you,” she continued, “we know that he misses you. You were all he talked about since Garrett’s death.”

And the thing was, Ryan cared for Shane too. God _knows_ that he enjoyed having the big guy around; for the endless hours that Curly spent teasing him about having someone that he had similar interests with despite both of them at opposite ends of the ‘skeptic-to-believer’ spectrum. (Curly called it fate.Ryan said it was like they were two stubborn forces crashing into each other constantly.)

“I do too,” Ryan breathed, yet, he couldn't understand why he felt winded when he thought about Shane, “I miss him. But he needs time… he needs space.”

“What he needs and what he wants are two different things,” Devon pressed, checking her watch on her wrist and holding herself up from the couch, “and what he _wants_ is to see you. I won’t force you to see him, call Kelsey to drive you there anytime and she will. I gotta run, I have work left over from my break.”

Finally, Devon grinned at him twirling her keys around her fingers and walking to the door. Without a second thought, Ryan opened his mouth: “wait.”

She turned around, “yeah?”

“Could you—maybe… wait until I get this,” Ryan pointed at his hair, “handled? I woke up hours ago, so I look like shit, nothing gel can fix. It’ll take a couple of minutes, I swear. Unless you’re not… willing to drive me to Shane’s apartment?”

“Oh Ryan,” her shoulders slumped, relaxing once Ryan took it upon himself to turn off the television. She was no longer as frigid; her mood lifted as he felt warmth radiated from her. “You don’t have to put gel on your hair. Come on, before it gets dark.”

* * *

Shane’s apartment was in a neighborhood two blocks away from downtown. Not as necessarily close from his hotel room (thanks to traffic) but a short drive. As a private investigator—and a famous one at that—Shane had _money_. He had a working car, dressed properly every time Ryan saw him and yet, it was where he lived that surprised Ryan the most. 

He recalled that Shane told him that his living conditions didn't pester him, not really. In fact, he often lived with strangers and in rented apartments since he was twenty. Keeping himself out of reach (away from a palatial mansion or a condo downtown,) and traveled with a suitcase filled with his essentials every three months as if he knew it would keep him and his family safe. 

The man himself had a bounty on his head, even if he didn't know about it.And without a place he could permanently call home.

Shane lived with a former colleague this time, apartment above a drugstore and a local insurance company. Both signs in bleached color, letters scrapped after harsh weathering of time. People lived here though, and it wasn’t a shocking revelation when Ryan was from Arcadia—when he lived at a shop with antiques and next to murals and local businesses. Shane’s temporary apartment felt almost like Los Angeles and he loved it. 

Devon observed him through her car’s tinted window (at rest when he knew that if he was in danger, she knew _how_ to beat up his attacker even with flat shoes.) He walked towards the drugstore, then to the fenced alleyway where the entrance of Shane’s apartment would be. Climbing up the rickety stairs, he reached to the second floor, knocking on the door tentatively. 

Ryan waited at least two minutes before a woman opened the door, obviously _not_ Shane, around the same height as Ryan. “Hello, I’m Shane’s—”

“Ryan Bergara?” She pronounced carefully, clearing each syllable of his name before looking over his shoulder and out of the door. It stunned him from how abrupt the action was but she ignored him and looked to his left. Shane’s roommate looked at Devon’s car, giving her a thumbs up. 

Ryan held himself up with the rail by the staircase, watched the interaction unfold before Devon drove off and the woman who Ryan had met twenty seconds ago reached for his forearm and allowed him into the apartment. The scent of cinnamon struck his senses promptly, alarmingly close to a certain vial of oil in his jacket pocket. Nothing was out of place here, it was tidy and _normal_ to say the least. 

Off-white walls with frames of art and pastel colors presented the house fine, Ryan never had an interest in interior design when he knew that a home meant something when you _make_ it a home. For all he knew, Shane would feel at home for a couple of months before leaving again. An apartment like this would have cost a fortune in Los Angeles, still he ignored his temptation to look for hex bags when Shane’s roommate closed the front door.

“I knew you'd come sooner or later. Fuck, you have no idea what a relief it is to see a friend of Shane's,” she declared, finally giving Ryan a better look at what she looked like. Shane’s roommate had short, pitch-black hair that was swept neatly to the side and a mischievous grin plastered on her face. “I’m Jen! Shane's previous colleague.”

Jen was shorter than him now that she’s face-to-face with him, holding her hand for him and sunglasses on the other. It was evident that Jen was dressed to go out, wearing a denim jacket with a button down underneath, she kept her smile on her face as Ryan returned the greeting. “Sorry to come at a weird time…”

“Nah, nah, no big deal,” she waved it off, “I am heading out to meet up with my girlfriend in a bit. Shane should be here somewhere…” Jen tilted her head over Ryan’s shoulder and tried to see if Shane was behind him, “he’s too quiet, you can never hear him—”

“Ryan?”

The apartment creaked as footsteps resounded through the living room, and at the sound of Ryan’s name, he turned to face the man he'd been ecstatic to see again. 

And Shane looked… perfectly fine.

Not that Ryan wanted to see otherwise—he just couldn’t stop uneasiness settle in the pit of his stomach when he saw how handsome he looked. Shane had a mustache, growing out a stubble as he would usually do. His hair was longer, _too_ long that it reached to the back of his neck and over his forehead. He was wearing his glasses today, his forehead scrunched when he saw Ryan.

Ryan’s brain spiraled with words that he wanted to say to him, starting with _what the hell is on your face_? although all he muttered out was: “Shane… you look good.”

It was like he was convincing himself that his friend was _fine_ but Shane’s blank expression remained on his face, beneath that was confusion from Ryan’s presence.

“Okay…” a hand squeezed Ryan’s shoulder to catch his attention. He whirled around to see Jen nod at him, “I’m going out Shane,” she announced without looking at him, almost as if she knew he wouldn’t reply to her. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Ryan. Be _good_ , Shane.”

As expected, Shane didn't utter a word. Ryan watched her go, locking the door for her when Shane didn't do anything so much as move an arm. Eventually, Ryan had to wake him from his trance and spoke, “how—how are you, man? Haven’t seen you in a minute, everyone is worried.” 

_All I think is about you and how worried I am for you_.

He laughed awkwardly when Shane stared at him, he pressed his thumb on the skin of his left hand and kept a respectable distance from Shane. 

“I’m good.”

Ryan nodded, “that’s—that’s good. Did you eat? It’s almost dinner time… if you haven’t then I could—”

“Don’t leave,” Shane interrupted, sadness clouding his features as his jaw clenched, “I’m sorry, I just can’t—I can’t decide if you’re really here or not yet. Jen recognized you, I think you’re really here.”

“I am really here,” Ryan answered, “It’s fucking cold outside. And you know me, all I’m wearing is a jacket and slippers.”

“Your hair isn’t gelled,” Shane took a few steps forward, reaching out for Ryan’s forearm, “then it is you. Why would you go out in this weather with a jacket this thin? You’re not in California.”

Ryan let out a laugh, nearly trembling from the freezing weather and Shane’s warm hands trying his best to retain his body heat for him. “What can I say? I’m an idiot.”

Shane didn't say anything then, his hands still on him as he motioned for Ryan to sit on the couch. He did what he was asked to do, locking eyes with Shane as he silently turned to a door that led to what Ryan believed to be the kitchen. He sat there alone as he heard the sounds of mugs knocking together, assuming that Shane would speak to him after he’ll return.

Ryan tried not to count the minutes Shane was gone, but it rattled him when half an hour went by with him in the living room of Shane’s apartment. The blinds of the windows adjacent to him had been closed, the sun setting brightened the door before Shane walked back in the room with a sole mug in his hand. 

He set it down on the coffee table in front of Ryan, “not coffee. You get a stomach ache when you drink coffee after noon. It’s hot chocolate.”

“It took you that long?” Ryan joked naturally, an instinct to tease him and held it in his hands to warm them up. “What’s in this? Your special recipe?”

“Sorry, I'm still—I needed to process this.”

Stopping his sips of the steaming hot chocolate, Ryan paused and squeezed his eyes shut. Wishing to himself that he should learn to read the room better and _shut the hell up_. Why would Shane do that? Ryan didn't know, he could only think to himself as he sat on Shane’s supposed bed and drank hot chocolate.

It burned his tongue but he downed half of it without thinking about it.

By the time Ryan finished the drink, the sun had set and Shane turned the lamp beside him on. A whole hour went by and Shane hasn’t said a single word. Disregarding how Shane looked (when he looked absolutely neat,) he really wasn’t in the best shape. The last thing Ryan wanted to do was upset Shane, however, this side of him unnerved him.

Shane’s hair was styled, with his face glowing, clothes ironed and washed. There wasn’t anything wrong with him physically, he walked, did things and stuck to his own as he does. He lived in this organized apartment—nothing out of place, not even him. 

(Now… it made sense why Ryan felt perturbed when he first walked in. It wasn’t Jen’s lucent, enthusiastic personality pulsing from her. It was how clean the apartment was. Shane was a messy guy… he would ask for Devon’s help when he needed to find his own files at the office.

They both had issues with keeping their workspace tidy. It drove Devon crazy, especially when Shane would joke with _Ryan's_ work and try to lick his documents for no reason but to annoy him.)

In the back of Ryan’s mind, he wanted to desperately hold Shane’s shoulders to snap him out of it by yelling at him to _smile_ or to tell him a joke. He wanted to hear his voice, anything that could make him laugh or lessen the quietness of the room. He’s been silent with him before, when Shane was too jaded to talk, closing his eyes and patting the couch beside him to rest with him. 

This? 

This felt like hell.

Ryan gaped, trying to come up with the words appropriate for the situation at hand when Shane beat him to it.

“Are you sleeping?”

“W—” Ryan jerked his head in Shane's direction, worry dawned on his face, “what?”

Shane frowned, blinking at Ryan before pointing under his own eye, “you have purple all over,” he caressed his skin and what appeared to be _nothing_ underneath. Ryan wasn’t sure what he looked like when it came to his insomnia. He could guess that it was ghastly to see it under subdued light. 

He reached for his eyes, “oh—I am—I sleep,” a lie wouldn’t hurt, especially when it was somewhat true. He slept during the day when the sun was out and the darkness of the night was unable to hurt him or plague him with night terrors. 

Funny enough, Ryan let out a chuckle when Shane peered at him. He was impassive to Ryan’s words and insisted: “they look worse than before.”

Shane turned to stare at his coffee table, hands on his thighs and back slumped. He was tall, obviously towering over everyone he knew, his posture always kept him at a permanent ‘bending down to listen to what Ryan has to say.’ Seeing it now, it pained him to see that Shane didn't really care about anything concerning himself.

What would it take to make him listen?

Ryan lowered his head, averting from Shane's gaze. Though, it didn't take long until Shane turned away from him too. He felt pitiful, and the desire to cry lingered over him. His lungs tried to follow his erratic breathing, but the longer Ryan sat still, the more difficult it was to hold it in. Ryan massaged his hands, his fingers pressing on the slim bone of his thumb, “I’m not sleeping.”

Shane didn't speak.

"I actually _can’t_ ,” Ryan continued, hoping that his friend would listen to his rambling anyway. He trusted Shane that he would, to guarantee another sentence from him wasn’t likely but the least of Ryan’s worries. 

“Every time I sleep, I have nightmares,” Ryan bemoaned, twisting his head side to side to untangle the knot on his shoulders, “they’ve never been this bad since I used to read horror comics before bed. Mom and Dad would catch me staring at them at the foot of their bed every night, I think I was unable to show how scared I was and I just… stood there.”

“I can’t do that anymore, so I don’t sleep,” Ryan laughed hollowly, “and when I’m awake I feel... I don't know—afraid? Someone could try to shoot through the window of my room or whenever someone knocks and I’m close to the door." He noticed himself rambling, barely a breath taken between his words, though Ryan couldn't bare to face Shane with all the burden he held on his shoulders. It wasn't right, and he anticipated their reunion for _weeks_. 

"We’re not chasing after a demon but it does feel like it—I—" Ryan's throat felt dry, tears gathered in his eyes as he remembered when he didn't feel like _himself_ as he ate breakfast one morning, or how he envisioned a face looking at him through his window in the dead of the night. "I feel paralyzed with fear every day and the longer I’m away from you… I feel like it’s getting worse.”

Ryan felt eyes on him, he was too much of a coward to meet them, “whenever you’re around I feel safe. When we were working together, I forgot what I was looking for. It seems like... with you,” Ryan turned to him, “it’s easy to forget.”

They stare at each other, the light illuminating from the lamp in the living room single handedly kept Ryan from running out of the apartment as the sombre twilight turned into night. As expected, Shane didn't say anything, his eyes glistened for a moment and when Ryan was about to take everything he said back in concern that he had angered Shane, the doorbell rang.

Shane let it ring twice, not moving until Ryan drew his eyebrows together. 

“Madej! It’s Kelsey!” A loud bang echoed in the apartment, “I have to take Ryan home, open up!” 

“Oh,” Ryan jerked his finger toward the door, “that’s my ride?”

Shane blinked rapidly, unclenching his fists and changed his demeanor suddenly. Almost like the man Ryan spent hours with didn't exist, Shane stood on trembling legs, walked past him and opened the front door to his apartment.

Kelsey let out a breath when he did, her head peeked over the door frame and forced a smile, “let’s go Ryan, it’s getting late. I’ll talk to you later, Madej. Alright?”

Shane nodded his head, stepping aside for Ryan to exit his apartment. Kelsey turned away, stepping down the stairs when Ryan suddenly paused. He wasn’t outside yet, the overwhelming frigid air hit him from inside as he tried to leave his friend behind. He didn't know why he stopped, hell, Kelsey hadn’t noticed that he did until she called out for him. 

(In an ideal fictional world, he imagined that Shane would stop him with a soft touch of his hand. To hold Ryan and ask him to stay, that he’ll sleep by his side and no longer suffer from nightmares ever again.

A fever dream that he couldn’t reach. Something that Ryan wanted to hear from him. Anything—hear anything.

_It’s not your fault._

_Garrett’s death is not your fault._

_Me finding him isn’t your fault._

_Bringing me into the case isn’t your fault. It was my choice. Don’t blame yourself. Please talk to me._ )

“Ryan! Come on!”

The corner of his mouth quirked up and thought that maybe that would exist in another universe. And hopefully that Ryan would be able to sleep tonight. He was a step away from the door when he felt something drape over his shoulders, a thicker cloth draped over him until he realized that it was Shane who had been behind him the entire time. 

Ryan turned his head to his shoulders, then to Shane, his jaw dropped and he could only hold onto the coat over him. “Shane—” what could he say? There was nothing he could say. “I’ll see you later. Take it easy, man.”

With that, Ryan stepped out of Shane’s apartment and heard the door close behind him as he followed Kelsey to her car. He didn't speak on the ride back to the hotel, not commenting on his empty stomach or his distress from seeing his friend in that state. All he _wanted_ was for Kelsey to turn the car around and for Ryan to embrace Shane until he let it all out.

What Ryan _could_ do is ignore his growling stomach and hold Shane’s coat tighter over him. Keeping him warm and the aroma of Shane’s cologne reminding him that he was safe, he would always be safe when he was around.

(If he cried into his shoulder, Kelsey didn't say a word about it.)

…

In the morning, Ryan is awoken in the same matter. 

He doesn’t realize that he had been awakened from sleep until he grudgingly stood from the bed to open the door. Introducing himself, Ryan stared absentmindedly with bed hair and all to the officer who cleared their throat and ordered him to pack his things.

Were they kicking him out?

He didn't argue or ask, he _did_ what he was told without question. He idly jammed his clothes into his suitcases, dressed himself, washed up and decided that he’ll sleep on the plane back home. Ryan looked up from his first suitcase, stacked with his casual clothing to the television. He purposely left it at a soap opera that he used to watch with Curly, though he couldn’t always interpret what they say, he would have Curly translate to him before trying to pronounce the words.

He tried his best not to dwell, but he swallowed the lump in his throat when he realized that visiting Curly whenever he returned would not happen.

Another knock on the door interrupted his thought, walking away from the luggage to hide behind the wall of the bathroom and shield his body before asking: “who is it?”

“Mr. Bergara, Darragh sent me to escort you to your new hotel room.”

Puzzled, Ryan remained hidden, “I’ll be staying at a hotel in L.A?”

“Los Angeles? No, you’ll be staying at another hotel here until I receive further instructions from Kelsey Darragh and private investigator Shane Madej.”

_Shane_? Ryan mouthed to himself. What did Shane have to do with this? Why was he moving out anyway?

Recognizing that he wasn’t going home, Ryan stepped away from the wall, and swore to himself for taking his time organizing his clothes in the first place. He was _convinced_ that he was being sent home for his inutility in the Roseberry case—not to mention, in hiatus. Why else would he stay here? Are they bouncing him around hotels now too?

“No, Mr. Bergara,” the police officer assured, taking Ryan’s suitcases and wheeling them out to the van outside of the hotel. The sun hadn’t been overhead and the reception desk was filling up with guests asking where the breakfast bar was. Then he was… awake in the morning for once? “Accommodations in your temporary residency requested by Shane Madej earlier this morning were accepted by Chief of Investigations, Eugene Yang. He insisted on assigning an updated room that would keep you out of sight and safe.”

The officer explained the situation to him, Ryan pressed his lips together and watched as he stacked Ryan’s things into the car and gestured at him to sit inside the car. Without question, Ryan did as he was asked and kept to himself; for the entire ride, Ryan held Shane’s coat to himself, the sleeves a bit too broad and long that he had to fold them continuously for his hands to be of use. He occupied himself, listening in when other calls spoke on the intercom, unsure what the codes for anything was.

As long as it isn’t anything remotely to code 187, Ryan would be satisfied.

He arrived safely, if compared to when Steven had taken him to his first hotel back in August, this time it was less of a fantastic novelty. Ryan took his things, checked in himself and was given a room on the third floor with a window small enough for him to see the adjacent building's brick wall.

Sliding the curtains for the first time in months, Ryan let the sun shine into his room as he unpacked _once_ again. Halfway into the process, he stopped and fell back on the king bed. The last hotel he had gave him two beds, something that obviously didn't need to have, much less to have an entire wall of windows that faced an apartment building.

He felt safer here, his areas of exit at close range and at a location that wasn’t possible to access unless you _had_ the money to pay for it. (He’ll let Curly’s comment on the first night pass this time.)

Ryan closed his eyes when he heard footsteps outside of his door. Nothing would change to ensure his safety, and he listened to the mumbled conversation from the other side of the door, Ryan pressed his feet on the carpet and stood up. 

“Mr. Bergara,” the officer assigned to him notified, “you have a visitor. Are you awake?”

Ah, it must be Kelsey to bother him with lunch. It was strange to not have an employee knock on his door asking if he’ll eat but if meant that Kelsey had to constantly remind him that food was a necessity, then it was perfectly fine for him. Snorting, Ryan replied, “yeah, yeah,” he walked over to the door, holding the knob and swinging it open, “I’m awake. I don’t—”

Not Kelsey.

Not even close.

What Ryan found on the other side of the door was Shane Madej, similarly groomed from the day before, his clothes the only discrepancy of his look, still nothing felt out of place.

They locked eyes, kicking out the air in Ryan’s lungs; a force that was unexpected and—and it was what Ryan wanted more in the world. He opened the door wider, welcoming in Shane with a smile on his face, “please come in, big guy. Are you hungry? We can eat together.”

Shane’s jaw grounded, his eyes uncertain but he stepped into the hotel room, moving at a steady pace and reached the threshold of the new hotel room that he gave Ryan. After closing the door, Ryan spread out his arms, “do you like it? I’m sure you picked it out yourself. So thank you, I owe you.”

Of course Shane had seen the room, he didn't bother to try and take in the surroundings of a room that he inspected. He wouldn’t care and listen, Ryan wouldn’t either if he never spoke another word to him again as long as he’ll stay by Ryan’s side. Laughing to himself, Ryan picked up the menu on the bottom of the television stand and opened it. He didn't have much variety this time around, what did it matter? A sandwich would keep him full and happy for _life_.

“Ryan.”

Ryan hummed, “what’s up?”

“Ryan," Shane gulped, _"Ryan_. Please come here.”

Lifting his chin, Ryan had a moment's notice to place the menu down before his friend took two steps towards him and fell into his arms. In a hasty motion, Ryan gasped, holding a man that was taller than him and seemingly let his weight slump over Ryan. 

“Whoa—whoa whoa whoa, what’s going on? Are you okay? Shane? Are you hurt?” Now concerned, Ryan tried to pull away to see if Shane _was_ injured in any way that he didn't know. Refusing to let go, Shane shook his head on the crook of Ryan’s neck and held him until he couldn’t pull his weight anymore.

It seemed that Ryan was in a daze, he let go of Shane for a second and his eyes rounded before he heard a harrowing sob echo from below him. Falling to his knees, Ryan spread his arms and held Shane, tight against him. The hug was swiftly reciprocated, taking in everything that he could, Shane let himself relax in his embrace.

“Ryan, I'm so—sorry,” Shane wept into his shoulder, his body shook with his wails, “I missed you so much.”

Ryan held him, a silent action that spoke louder than he could ever say, _me too. I’ll protect you. I will do anything for you._

_You’ll be safe with me._

Pressing a kiss on Shane’s quivering head, he pressed him further into his neck and held him.

_I love you_.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised, another whooping chapter!! A bit longer than yesterday's but oh boy, lots to unpack in this one, honestly one of my faves I think. We're starting to see a different side to our boys~~~ Not sure when I'll update again, editing is 95% finished so keep an eye out for the next chapter in a week or two :-)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **Warning:** This chapter contains description of self-harm, continue with caution.

**NOVEMBER 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

In the midst of silence, Shane abruptly woke at the whisper of his name. Ryan’s drowsy voice rang in his ears, barely registered as something that he should reply to until he instinctively hummed as if to answer with _yes, I’m awake, I’m awake. What is it_?

He heard nothing from his left side, Ryan’s stillness almost fooled Shane into thinking that he fell back to sleep. He opened his glazed eyes anyway, tried to adjust to the bold light from the alarm clock on his side of the bed. With his back turned away from Ryan, he drew in a long breath and mumbled: “Ryan?”

“So’ry…” Ryan’s voice rugged from sleep replied, “d’you… kick me?”

Ryan spoke softly and low, his words wavered as he asked if Shane had startled him. It took Shane seconds to think about it, his leg must have twitched before being alerted by Ryan. He had been getting the hang of staying half-asleep and half-awake during the night, attentively vigilant to Ryan’s worrisome behavior as he slept. And knowing him, he’ll be awake after forty minutes of silence from Ryan’s end to inconsolable shrieks or the call of his name. 

He stared at the bright red numbers, 5:26 A.M, squinting as he refused to give his eyes time to adjust to the iridescent light. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I did, sorry.”

Ryan hummed as Shane felt a yawn wander out of his mouth. Listening for another word from his companion, he finally rolled to his back, placing his hand over his tepid, sweaty forehead. “My word,” he groaned sulkily, “I’m tired.”

Rubbing at his sore eyes, Shane let his eyes water for a couple of seconds. He kept his hand on his skin, slowly got used to the temperature prior to turning his head to the side. Ryan fell back to sleep facing him, hands by his pillow curled into his collarbones and hair sprawled over the sheets. Routinely, Shane placed his free hand on Ryan’s temple, feeling if he was warmer than he was.

He wasn’t, in fact, Ryan’s body was less affected by flu symptoms than nightmares. Albeit being the one to walk around with a flimsy excuse of a jacket and sneakers in freezing conditions, Ryan hadn’t caught a cold.

Shane didn't move his hand right away, he could barely see Ryan’s figure from what little light he was given, though his thumb stroked Ryan’s eyebrow and smoothed down his scowl. He knew that Ryan wasn’t sleeping well, deteriorating his health at a rapid pace and the source of it: his nightmares. 

Ryan told him about them. However, Shane didn't realize how bad they were until he encountered them days ago. On the second day of meeting up with Ryan with an inflamed throat, Shane fell asleep before he could drive himself home and woke up at one in the morning to Ryan vigorously shaking his shoulders to wake up because his clothes were drenched with blood. 

Shane’s clothes were fine, although, Ryan wasn’t convinced until Shane held him down and begged him to go back to sleep. 

(“I’m scared to close my eyes,” Ryan sniveled then, curled into Shane’s embrace, exertion clear all over his limbs and face void of his healthy complexion. “If I close them, I’m scared to open them and see something standing over me.”

“I’m the only one here,” Shane reassured, felt worse than he had in years and groggy from flu medicine, “It’s just you and I.”)

It’s been a few days since and Shane stayed with Ryan as he recovered from his impromptu cold. It’s also been a few days since Shane got the hang of Ryan’s unrepentant way of waking Shane up to talk to him when he was horrified of dreaming of corpses. It lasted hours sometimes; Ryan’s voice drifting him to near sleep as he talked and talked—finally causing Ryan to collapse in his own fatigue. 

As soon as Ryan fell asleep, Shane would be apprehensive following him, knowing full well he’ll wake up soon. 

He didn't care—what the hell was he complaining for when _he_ could sleep perfectly fine?

_Not a nightmare_ , Shane mulled it over as he ran his hand over Ryan’s hair before pulling it away, _I woke him_.

_That’s good._

Shane’s eyes blinked slowly. Arm left above Ryan’s head, fingers cradled between silky strands of his bed hair. Shane was dead tired, body weak from exertion of tackling his coughs and digesting medicine.

With a single look at Ryan’s unconscious form, Shane decided that he’d stay awake for a bit longer to check on him. After five minutes, he felt himself drift and lose track of when he had his eyes open or not. Thinking that he could fight sleep, the last conscious thought he had was of Ryan.

When Shane woke up again, the room was well-lit.

As an investigator, his long nights dealt with caffeine and watching the sun rise as he drove home to sleep through the afternoon. He knew whenever he awoke, the sun would be high in the sky for those out to grab lunch with their coworkers or younger children sent home from school. Shane recognized the sight; Jen’s living room (she paid most of the rent, the apartment was _hers,_ ) would be lit and his roommates busting away in the kitchen as he slept on the pull-out sofa bed a few feet away.

This time, it was no different. He knew it was around noon before he could get used to the lucent room. Hushed was Ryan’s hotel room, hardly a sound to keep them from waking up—still, he tuned into the white noise of the ceiling fan and finally acknowledged that one of his arms felt stiff.

Shane held up a finger on his left hand, immediately retracting when he sensed warmth. His hand twitched but he remained still, lashes fluttered as he bowed his head. 

Ah. Yes, of course it is.

He took in the sight of Ryan Bergara next to him and blew out his cheeks.

Although Shane’s head was muddy, he knew that he woke up earlier in the night to Ryan calling for him—he just didn't know he fell back to sleep with his right arm over Ryan’s head and his left held by said man. Ryan laid on his back, usually whenever he slept, he would move to this position and _never_ wake until he was fully rested.

Often with his hands over his stomach, this time, Shane’s left hand held loosely in both of Ryan's hands.

Shane peered his eyes at this, unable to construct a thought of what he should do. He didn't want to wake Ryan up by moving too much, but also his bladder _screamed_ at him after hours in bed.

He knew better than to hastily remove himself from the picture; he didn't want to startle his friend, much less send him into cardiac arrest. Shane did what he knew best: announce that he _was_ Shane.

“Ryan,” he whispered, fingers tapped on his friend’s stomach. Ryan’s stomach was toned, the man’s figure muscular than anyone Shane’s ever known. Still, his bare skin was soft and toasty, all of his body heat transferring to Shane’s who was _not_ half-naked and wearing sweatpants like the local Chicago native (in _autumn_ ) he was.

“Ryan, don’t freak out,” his voice croaked, he cleared his throat before trying to move his left hand away first, “I’m Shane Madej, I was sleeping next to you. I will be right back.”

Ryan didn't stir, barely a reaction from him but his gaping mouth widened and his eyelids twitched. Months ago, Shane would have found this strange to do—to announce that he was in someone’s bed and about to leave—but when your friend often forgets who you _are_ in the middle of the night, shaking you to near death… maybe… maybe it applies there.

Shane pulled away, like he expected, Ryan didn't reach for his hand or wake up. For a moment, Shane kind of wanted to see if it would happen until he stood up and realized why he woke up in the first place.

After washing up, he walked out with a hand ruffling his long hair. He’s had many, many haircuts in his thirty-two years of living on Earth, and for the first time since he was a boy, he didn't think to _cut_ it. He found it a hindrance to show his face nowadays. 

He looked at the direction of the bed to find Ryan’s expression close up. His eyebrows scrunched together and turned his side, eyes slowly blinking away his slumber. Swiftly, Shane found himself on the other side of the bed, promptly sitting down and waited for Ryan to wake up.

He’s done this for almost a week now.

On terrible, _harrowing_ nights—when Ryan was lucky enough to sleep for two hours at a time—Shane stayed awake. Despite being diagnosed with a cold by Dr. Kelsey, Shane stayed up away to see if these night terrors of Ryan’s escalated to the emergency room. Thankfully they hadn’t, not when Shane was a step ahead of him.

Ryan would wake up on the edge of tears though, quizzically surveying around the darkness of the room and panic. Unless Shane was there to comfort him—like he did two months ago after finding him in a near state of shock in front of a corpse. Ryan has seen a glimpse of a decapitated head, catching only a tuft of hair on a bathroom sink before he became aware that it wasn’t _normal_. But an entire body? In _real_ life?

God. 

If he—if _they_ solved this case long ago. 

Garrett would be alive and Ryan would be in Los Angeles with his family, enjoying theme park junk food, safe and _without_ nightmares.

What if this continues? What if Ryan never gets better because Shane never found the killer? 

He felt like jackass thinking about himself when Ryan was the one suffering—when _he_ wasn’t used to encountering dead bodies around houses or alleyways. However, if he had solved this stupid _fucking_ case, Ryan wouldn’t be next to him, miserable.

Clenching his fists, Shane endured the tips of his nails scraping against his skin as Ryan twisted around in his sheets. Eyes squeezed shut and breaths quickening with every second. Shane ran, and reached for Ryan trashing around in his bed. Shane pressed his hands on Ryan’s shoulders to keep him from hurting himself (like two days ago when Ryan almost dislocated his shoulder because he was _strong._ ) 

He hushed, soothed, did everything in his power to keep Ryan from falling into that state and swore; promised to himself for two months in a row, that he’ll find this motherfucker—he held Ryan’s hand away from his face—he will find this murderer who killed two young sisters, a woman and a man with a family who loved them.

He swore—as Ryan’s eyes snapped open and caught Shane’s, slowly lowering himself back to the mattress with a sharp breath, a smile appearing on his face with his dimples apparent—that he’ll find the killer who killed his best friend, brutally.

“Shane,” Ryan muttered, mostly to himself, offering a smile as if nothing happened moments prior. Shane promised to him, even if he didn't smile back that he’ll find the fucker who wrecked the man he trusted, someone he cared for and watched as he supported him through thick and thin.

“You’re here,” Ryan sniffled, “why are you on top of me?”

Shane just couldn’t find the right _words_. The expression he should make—they hated him no matter what he said, how he looked, or what he felt. It would break his heart if he witnessed Ryan look at him in resentment. 

He may never recover if he wronged Ryan.

“Oh,” he let go of Ryan’s wrists, letting him sit up and rest his back on the bed rest. “Sorry.”

Ryan let out a jittery chuckle, almost as if he wasn’t sure if it was the right response to Shane holding him down a bed. He sat up, torso leaning on the bed rest as Shane scrambled away, legs tangled on Ryan’s washed sheets. Before he could reach the ground, he felt Ryan hold him still, “did I hurt you?” 

Ryan twisted Shane’s wrists in his hands, reached for the other arm and searched for any bruises. Ryan hasn’t particularly injured him, albeit what Ryan assumed he did during his night terrors, the true victim was _himself_ and most of those injuries would appear on Ryan after a couple of hours.

Shane let Ryan do whatever he wanted to him, as long as it made him feel better to know he didn't harm him. Bringing up his concern over Ryan’s possible scarred back went over his head when Ryan prated, “that’s good. That’s good… what time is it? How long was I out? Did you eat?”

Having the answer to all of his questions, Shane’s head turned to the alarm clock on his bedside table. “I just woke up ten minutes ago. It's almost one in the afternoon. You were out all morning,” _not last night_ , _don’t you remember_? “Are you well? How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt better,” Ryan groaned, falling back to the pristine pillows of his bed. Shane’s eyes bore into him, holding himself up with one arm on the mattress and the other to his side. “I don’t feel like shit anymore, so… I _did_ sleep.”

Again, Shane didn't speak. He thought that mentioning Ryan waking up at the crack of dawn because of Shane accidentally kicking him or Ryan at eleven at night loosely babbled in his sleep about how distraught he felt over Garrett’s death didn't matter at the moment. 

“Somehow I knew I would anyway,” Ryan went on, fully aware that Shane would rather listen than talk nowadays. His arm pressed to his glossy forehead, obliviously sticking black strands of his hair to his skin as he blinked heavenward, “I feel safer with you around. If I couldn’t sleep,” with a shrug of his shoulder, Ryan beamed, “I could turn to you and annoy you for a while.”

Nodding his head, Shane slowly retreated from the bed. Grounding his feet on the carpet, he walked over to his backpack. He hadn’t initially planned to stay overnight; Jen thought to take it upon herself to pack a few of his clothes (if not all, since he lived out of two suitcases actually,) and asked him to stay with his friend until he felt better. Shane had sweated out his cold hours ago but Ryan had yet to out-dream his nightmares.

Unzipping his bag, he sought out his clothes for the day. He’s overstayed his welcome into Ryan’s private quarters and he decided that today was the day to _go_. He didn't want to—not really, but this wasn’t his house and Ryan had to see a specialist at one point. Hearing Ryan shuffle behind him, he muttered, cautiously looking for the right words to say: “it’s late, we should go get lunch.”

“Sounds good, what about brunch?” another set of moving around, sheets being discarded back to the mattress. Almost hearing the smile on Ryan’s face, “I could go for some eggs and bacon right now, big guy. A diner?”

Shane shrugged his shoulders, folding his shirt over his pants, “I—” he paused as he whirled around. 

Convinced that he’d see Ryan still covered in his sheets, body swallowed by blankets with his head the only part of him that’s visible. Maybe he could have thrown in a joke then, a jab at Ryan about how lazy he was. Maybe… _perhaps,_ he could have opened up again. Be himself as he once was. Playful and full of laughter—back to making his best friend wheeze at his stupid jokes… to that fervor in his stomach whenever Ryan was happy because of him.

He was sure that it could happen if he had the courage. Instead, Shane’s brows drew together, swallowing what little saliva he had left from dehydration. Throat sore, his gasp was cut short when he saw Ryan’s shoulder blade. 

He didn't think it was that bad—he saw it in the dark of the night. And maybe it was best that he did.

Ryan’s torso was bare, his shoulder presented with crimson abrasions, scratches that spread down to his waist and stung to the touch. One of the wounds had deep, dried blood imprinted on his shoulder as the rest formed around purplish bruising. Tensing, Ryan squared his shoulder, yawning and stretching his arms high. 

Unaware of the damage he’s done to himself.

How could Shane have missed it?

How could Shane keep lying to himself that this was for the best? For who? Was it getting _worse_?

He tried to think but his memory was blurred, the fever had him off his feet for days and whereas he swore to himself that he’ll keep Ryan company, he couldn’t help as to move in, instinctively holding his friend and murmuring the same comforting words to him without realizing what was going on.

Suppose this _was_ last night when Shane was reaching the end of his cold. Ryan must have done it when he wasn’t looking, hurting himself and scrubbing gratingly on his bronze skin. Shane knew this was Ryan's doing. He had tried to dislocate his shoulder, contoured his arm and exposed the discoloration of his skin, flushed. 

Without hesitation, Shane dropped his façade. Promptly eased the grasp on his clothes, let them fall on top of his bag and walked to the bed. He slumped his weight next to Ryan. Stunned, Ryan’s eyes widened, “what happened?”

Shane winced, reaching out to his friend before stopping himself. His hand hovered over Ryan's bare skin, though, the warmth of his skin emitted from him regardless and Shane stroked Ryan's unscathed shoulder, “I was going to tell you when I saw it for myself, Ryan. You didn't hurt me, but you scratched yourself again. We’re going to have to take you to the infirmary.”

“Again?” Ryan groaned and looked over his shoulder, knowing full well which one it _was._ “Jesus Christ, what the hell did I do? How the hell is that possible?”

“You’re a strong dude,” Shane responded, his hand circled around Ryan's shoulder blade, he felt his friend jolt but relax with his touch, “that’s not all, I have to ask you a serious question.”

“Yeah no kidding,” Ryan puffed out his chest, shoulders sagging, “I need to sleep with gloves on or _something_.”

“I want to know what you dreamt about last night. And I need to know why you’re going for your shoulder every time—”

“Shane,” suddenly exasperated, Ryan rose on steady feet and Shane's hand fell to his lap. “I don’t think that would help. All I dream about—death. Death is all I dream about.”

“And your shoulder?”

Once again, Ryan gawked, his expression turned into incitement and seemed as if he wanted to walk away from the conversation. “Shane—I don’t know.”

“This can’t keep happening, we have to find help for you. I have to know, Ryan.”

“Gloves!” Ryan blurted, his hands spread in front of him as if it would convince Shane to drop it. 

“We’re trying to stop your night terrors, not adapt to them. Listen to me—you’ll be okay, hey, hey, come here,” this time Ryan did try to walk away, Shane didn't want to pressure him if it affected him negatively and he didn't want to upset him. A hungry, semi-rested Ryan looked at him, weary eyes blinked up at him as he fought back tears. “You’re not alone, you’re not.”

Ryan’s eyes were glossed over, seemingly used to being open for short periods of time. He rubbed his nose, sniffled and shrunk away from Shane, “I told you that I’m willing to talk to a therapist. I know that it won’t help, I would have to go home—”

Stopping himself, Ryan exhaled and turned away from Shane again. _That’s okay_ , Shane told himself, _don’t force him, he’ll come to you when he’s ready._ Shane was seconds away from changing the subject entirely when Ryan reluctantly entered the bathroom. 

“If you want to go home… then we can set up a flight home—”

“I can’t go home!” Ryan exclaimed, voice booming in the room as Shane shut his mouth, “I _desperately_ want to. I want to see my family again. But do you have any idea how terrified I am to go home? How would they react if they saw this?” Ryan gestured to his shoulder, “not because a fucking _demon_ did it to me. There’s no demon! I did it to myself! God forbid I lead the killer in question to them.”

“Ryan,” Shane began, as stern as he possibly could, “you know that you’ll be safe. Your family will be safe, nothing will happen to you.”

“Oh, so you can guarantee that? After what we’ve seen? What they wrote for—?” Ryan lashed out sarcastically, his eyes instantly softened at his own words. However, the damage had been done and Shane felt his heart shatter on the spot. “Shane, I’m sorry.”

It didn't matter.

“I didn't know Garrett would be bludgeoned to death, Ryan,” Shane rose to his feet, he trembled and his hands tightened into fists. His bitterness would never be targeted at Ryan, better yet, he dumped it all towards himself. “actually, you want the truth? I don’t know if you’ll be killed today, tomorrow, or next week. I don’t fucking _know_! I don't want it to happen to you!”

“I didn't mean it like that, Shane.”

“What _did_ you mean?” Shane tried to lower his voice, though his fury peeped through his burnout. This wasn’t right, they were both delusional and livid at each other—he knows that they’ll forgive and forget but fuck, Shane was too tired. “He was my friend, too. It fucking kills me that I see you like this every night, knowing that you’re _traumatized._ I’m trying to help you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ryan repeated, holding his hands up and stepping to Shane’s side. He held Shane's forearms, his fingers caressed Shane's quaking form. He knew how to deal with his furor, and Shane went limb under his hold. “I’m sorry. I take back my words, but Shane, I don’t need help. This is a phase, it will pass. You said it yourself, the placebo—”

“You shouldn’t have taken those words to heart, Ryan,” Shane didn't push Ryan away, he exhaled and reached for Ryan’s hands. They were freezing to the touch, apparent that Ryan really could care less about Chicago’s cold weather. “This isn’t—you have to trust what _you_ think is right.”

“I trust that I don’t need to talk to anybody.”

“Ryan, this isn’t a phase. I can help you.”

"I know you do," Ryan muttered, his voice far away even though he was facing Shane, "I can handle this myself."

And Shane wanted to trust him, but clairvoyance ran through Ryan's veins and Shane knew this by witnessing it firsthand; and as if Ryan wasn't truly himself, Ryan's body moved before he could think about what to say. Ryan let go of Shane, and walked backwards, almost fearful of the outcome and Shane's reaction. 

"Can you?" Shane croaked, his eyes burned and he tried to keep his tears at bay when Ryan grounded his jaw and shook his head.

“ _Fuck_ sakes—Shane—I don’t—" Ryan's mouth gaped, and words spilled out, Shane's talked to Ryan before (many, _many_ times) and astral projection wasn't something he'd look forward to experience _right_ now, not during an argument with his best friend. 

But this wasn't Ryan. This was someone else taking over him. And Shane desperately wanted to shake him back to reality, to come back to _him._ Shane couldn't move, instead, he observed his partner.

"I don’t want to remember and _keep_ remembering it," Ryan scowled out, at least half-a-brain to step away from Shane, "I want to forget. _Please._ Let me forget. I’m begging you,” a shaky sob escaped Ryan, and he yelled, more than he ever thought to, almost as if somebody was controlling him. “I want to fucking move on!”

Shane’s hands hovered over Ryan’s shaken form, unsure what to do, “Ryan—okay, okay, we won’t talk about it—”

“I'm s—”

A soft knock echoed in the hotel room, hesitant and short before picking up when Ryan grew quiet. “Mr. Bergara? It’s housekeeping.”

An exhale escaped Ryan as he closed his eyes, pressing his knuckles on his eyelid and composed himself. He turned away from Shane, walking towards the door with newfound courage he gained from confiding that nobody would try to hurt him with Shane around. He spoke quietly to the hotel’s housekeeper when Shane, defeated, sat on the foot of the bed. 

They’ve had arguments before, they weren’t rare. As a joke at the office, they were the ‘old married couple’ who quibbled with each other out of pure amity. They hadn’t been serious before, but this one sucker-punched Shane in the stomach. Even when Ryan closed the door, dismissing the housekeeper from cleaning the mess of his room and sat down next to him, Shane didn't bat an eye.

Why did it seem so different from before?

He felt Ryan move his arms, probably wringing his hands as a way to relieve his stress. All Shane could stare at was the carpet, his toes curled once in a while intentionally. He could hear his heart thumping out of his chest when he realized that he couldn’t take it anymore, he had given up. 

“We have to leave in ten,” Ryan informed with gentle remorse, “maybe—”

“Ryan.” He interrupted absentmindedly, fighting back tears, unsure how to _begin_ to confront Ryan. He let the call of his partner's name verify his worry, and as soon as Ryan turned his head and met his eyes, Shane knew that it _was_ Ryan. “Are you—should I—resign?”

Dumbfounded and one-hundred percent himself, Ryan let out a muttered: “what?”

“I don’t know what to do," Shane whispered, and as soon as he spoke, he wasn't sure if he was talking about himself or about Ryan. "I don’t want to resign because of shit they say,” he scoffed, “I’ve been called worse. I know I’ve fucked it up, it’s a miracle the families involved haven’t gone against me. Just… I feel like I’m close to finding them, I _know_. I don’t—I don’t know what I should do, where to start. Is it even appropriate to continue—”

“Are you kidding me? _Resign_? What the hell are you talking about?” Ryan reprimanded, “you’re not actually thinking about resigning, are you? I mean, we have fights—but this shouldn't—”

“That's not what this is about. We have _no_ leads, Ryan. Eugene—he had his boss tell him that we should close it by the end of the year—”

“Fuck them.”

Shane’s eyes rounded at Ryan’s bluntness, turning his head at his partner, he saw his expression harden as he grounded his jaw, “fuck all of them. How the hell can they discard all the work you’ve done?”

“I've done nothing. You—”

“You’ve done more than enough! You lost your friend for digging up the truth! No, I don’t think you should resign,” Ryan’s smile curled up, laughing to himself, “I’ve never seen a demon in my life but I still believe in them, I know they are out there. Nobody listens to me whenever I ramble about it except for you. You’ll go out there, you have to.”

_What would I say_?

“You will say what you know, as you always do. And fuck anybody who isn’t going to listen to you. I’ll listen,” Shane locked eyes with Ryan, “I’ll listen to you because I believe you. I trust you and if one person listens, that’s all you need to solve this case.”

Shane’s heart skipped a beat, from both Ryan’s words but his expression. Whenever Ryan spoke truthfully, he would hold eye contact with anybody, unafraid of what they’d reply with (since, y’know they’ll be scared shitless after Ryan had finished with them.) It’s almost like Shane’s been the one to handle everything until now, where Ryan ran headfirst into his worst nightmare, screaming and taunting everything in his path.

He’s left Shane speechless and all Shane could think about is Ryan’s shoulder.

_To hell_ and _beyond_ to what others thought, say and do. They weren’t seeing what Shane was every damn night, to watch your best friend harm himself because he thinks it's _his_ fault. Having to deal with the trauma of losing a friend and worried to death about his family and friends back home.

It was never going to stop if things continued the way they were.

He was going to solve this fucking case, if it was the last thing he’s done.

Demon or not—he was going to solve this case.

“I want to help you Ryan,” Shane pleaded, seconds away from falling to his knees in front of Ryan, begging him to get the help he needed to feel safe again. To talk about what is plaguing him, to accept that he _needs_ it and that Shane will be next to him. “What's happening to you... we can figure it out together.”

_Baby steps_ , Shane reminded himself when Ryan tensed, looking away and standing up from the bed. Ryan lifted his arm towards the ceiling fan, once on throughout their fight and turned it off. “I don’t know if it would help, but... we have to return to Aria’s shop.”

Not expecting that as a reply, Shane’s forehead creased, “what?”

“My shoulder,” Ryan held his hand on his bicep, “I don’t know why I do this but every night since Aria’s, it’s begun to hurt a bit more. You’ve slept beside me, I don’t think it’s the way I sleep or the mattress.”

“I don’t… understand,” Shane carefully went on, “what does that have to do with Aria?”

“I don’t know either, maybe we could try to ask?”

“Ask her?”

Still perplexed, Shane watched as Ryan dug in his backpack and took out the instrument that haunted Shane’s dreams. “Not Aria.”

Connecting two dots, Shane stood up and reached for the spirit box himself, “you think a ghost is making you do this?”

“Curly calls it ‘my spiritual gut feeling’ but I call it a hunch. I think… I should go back there to investigate it again. I feel like there’s something there.”

Shane’s head bobbed, slowly turning into a nod before snapping his fingers. He tossed the spirit box back to Ryan, ignoring the possibility of it breaking it and rummaged through his own luggage. He pulled his long hair away from his eyes when he couldn’t find it until he decided that futilely throwing his clothes to the floor was the solution. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

Hushing Ryan, Shane took out a manila folder. It crumbled from the edges, nearly folded in half from residing in Shane’s bag for a week and a half. “Don’t say anything, this is hypothetical,” he motioned for Ryan to take the folder and open it, “I’ve been doing some research on you while on break. I called your coworker a month ago and had to ask him.”

Ryan maintained his silence although Shane knew that he wanted to ask what Curly said to him. Needless to say, it will be left between the two of them for now. Shane’s eyes bore into him, watching as Ryan gawked at the papers inside, “What is this? _Lorraine Warren_?”

“Months ago we talked about that haunted doll in Connecticut, remember? I did some reading and found out that one of the ‘ghost hunters,’” Shane emphasized at Ryan, who glared at him mockingly, “was clairvoyant. She claimed to feel auras, has visually realistic nightmares about haunted locations she’s been to and witnessed exorcisms. Sadly, I couldn’t interview the gal, but I think you might have precognitive abilities.”

“I don’t,” Ryan rebutted, “thanks anyway.”

“Ryan, you might not understand what's going on. But I see it. I see it happen to you, and—" _you turn into a different person, and it scares me because I don't know if you'll ever come back_ , "if you _do_ , then going to Aria’s might be a good idea. You’ve had several panic attacks at the Roseberry house, Amari’s and at Pendulum.”

"Gruesome murder and haunted items, respectfully, at said places,” Ryan flipped through the papers anyway, his eyes followed the printed words from a newspaper article, ”I’m scared in at least ninety percent of the places we go. Fuck man, if you told me someone died at the Micky D’s we went to days ago, I’ll be scared shitless.”

Shane didn't deny _that_. He knew that Ryan wasn’t aware of his prowess. Even if Shane didn't believe the mambo jumbo that spilled out from self-claimed mediums, he knew that Ryan had _something_. It was evident Ryan never trained his cognitive senses, thus, never truly learned how to control himself when he walked into stressful situations.

“You have a gift.”

“I don’t think I do, big man,” Ryan arranged the papers back into the folder, “you don’t have any evidence to suggest otherwise.”

“Well,” Shane took the folder away from Ryan, hinting at a slight smile, “you can just ask the ghosties then.”

* * *

Pendulum hasn’t changed since Ryan had seen it for the first time months prior. The sign was still vandalized and the plaza it was located at nearly empty. They took the Tri-State Tollway, as the shop itself was a little over an hour away from the office and twenty minutes away from where Shane's alleged hometown, Schaumburg—by an annual medieval festival and ranches. The drive was longer this time around as it had begun to snow once they drove out of Chicago. 

(Shane had mentioned that snow wasn’t uncommon, but as a sign of a long, deplorable winter.)

Ryan shivered, curling into his body when he opened Shane’s car door. Letting in cold air, he shoved his hands inside his pockets and shoved the straps of his backpack over his uninjured shoulder. Before they left the hotel, they had a decent late lunch and checked Ryan’s wound. He didn't need stitches _thank god_ , a bit of Neosporin and a bandage later, he was ready to hunt for ghosts.

He didn't feel anything until he arrived there. A disassociated sensation that traveled through his bones, different from the anxiety of haunted locations or homicide investigations. Again, he felt… nothing. Actually, he didn't feel like himself. Almost as if he detached himself from his psyche, and his emotions poured into him in fragmented recollections that weren't his own. 

“You okay?”

Ryan turned to his partner. Shane was zipping up his own jacket, long hair blowing in the penetrative breeze, his nose turned red at every second they stood in the empty parking lot. “Yeah, actually, I feel fine.”

“Any ghouls out here?” Shane asked jokingly, walking to Ryan’s side of the car, “it is cold after all. I'd be risky to be stranded with all the ghouls from a blizzard.”

He didn't wait for Ryan’s retort as he started to walk inside of the shop on his own. Ryan uttered a couple of choice _words_ under his breath and followed him, dubious that Shane willingly would taunt any ghosts to kill him. The bell signaled their entrance inside Pendulum, this time, Aria stood at the counter, holding a box in her arms.

She whirled around at the sudden noise, she let out a surprised gasp before placing down her objects on the counter. “You’re here!” She wiped her hands on her clothes, “how was the trip? It’s a long drive, no?”

Smiling, Ryan shook Aria’s hand, “no, no, it was alright. How have you been?”

Aria smiled, her hair securely knotted in a bun, her bandana covering her forehead. She wasn’t wearing her shawl this time around, and she wore loose jeans with a tucked button down. Her aura remained the same, nothing out of place for her after living with cursed objects for years. She must have dealt with cleansing her home, because Ryan couldn’t find an excuse to trouble himself and sleep steps away from a doll enclosed in a case.

(“ _Ryan you already do that here,_ ” Curly laughed at him, when he called him back in September, “ _you have no excuse because you reek of calendula._ ”)

“I’m well,” her voice muted, “I see that you brought the skeptic too, do you want anything? Pop, tea?”

“Ghosts… preferably,” Shane taunted, “do you have any to spare?”

“I do,” Aria grinned, swaying on her feet, “they’re everywhere and nowhere at the same time. If you manage to catch one, do tell me.”

Shane smiled, his eyes crinkled as he swung his arms behind his back, “that’s what I came here for, I need to see one immediately.”

“Oh?” Aria mocked surprise, she turned from him to Ryan, she did not tease, though the smile on her face was jubilant, almost wondering how Ryan had gotten Shane to believe in the paranormal. He wanted to reassure her that Shane was still as stubborn as he was a fool. “I thought you were a full-time skeptic. By all means, speak to anyone as you please. Try not to mistreat them, they aren’t patient.” 

Aria spread her arms open, gesturing at her shop. Her friendly smile comforted Ryan enough to not be afraid at _whatever_ or whoever was there. He wasn’t sure if Aria herself knew—hell, Ryan didn't know what kind of ghosts he’s encountered in his twenty-eight years—but it never hurt to try. 

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked her, “I don’t want to invite anything in your home.”

Aria dismissed him, waving her hand over her shoulder and walked towards the counter again. “You kidding? I told you, they’re everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I have thick skin, nothing could harm me.”

Despite Aria’s nonchalant attitude, Ryan hesitated for a second before she finally turned to look at him again. Her eyes softened, “what’s wrong? Why aren’t you speaking?”

“Nothing, I’m just—thinking of what to say.”

Ryan wished to have an identical mindset. Instead, he stood by and stared at the items around him, feeling a bit bolder than before. He grounded his feet and turned away, eyes focused on Aria’s figure walking away from him. He tried to step forward, moving his right foot in front of him before halting to a stop.

What is that? The ringing?

Why was Aria slowly fading into a blur? Was she saying anything to him?

If she said anything else to him, he wouldn’t know. The ringing intensified, with a grimace, Ryan’s thumb pressed into the palm of his hand, pinching the skin roughly. He stood still, his vision mirrored his train of thought and he squinted to try and concentrate on what he felt. He couldn’t pinpoint his anxiety, but he felt his hands separate, the touch of his own bare skin felt foreign, as if it wasn’t _him_.

On the corner of Ryan’s eye, Shane twisted his body to him, “Ryan?”

Startled, Ryan woke up, “what?”

The ringing became something in the back of his mind as he turned to Shane. It faded into a soft thud, and Shane’s face had concern written all over it, “you okay? You’re doing it again.”

_Doing what_?

Before he could ask, Shane pointed to his shoulder with his chin, “you’re scratching yourself. You haven’t done it since last night, do you think we’re a step closer to why?”

Ryan turned his head over his right shoulder where his fingers had unconsciously dug into his skin, “dunno, don’t feel great.” He noticed behind him, over his shoulder had been a section of the shop he hadn’t investigated last time he was here. It looked untouched, with some of the tools displayed with a yellow price tag. Most of the equipment had been nothing to fawn over, they had discolored over time and hung in display for easy access. 

The ringing returned then, his eardrums filled with a thrum that peeved him to the point of running out of Aria’s shop. He was frustrated—what could it possibly be that would torture him from investigating? Could it be tools and not the antiques themselves?

Then—

“Hey Shane,” he muttered, shoving his backpack from his shoulder and holding it in front of him. He held it up with his knee as he dug through it, as soon as he found an audio recorder inside: “don’t take your eyes off me, watch me.”

Shane did not speak, though, his eyes bore into him as he took Ryan’s backpack away from him. Ryan’s back to him, he felt Shane’s burn into the back of his head, watching. At first, Ryan found it laughable to be cautious over household tools, but as he stared at them, his anxiety grew.

He concentrated on taking steps, balling his fist holding the device and blinked away his apprehension. Ryan spotted an empty wooden handle hung on the bulletin, as if a tool had been recently purchased and Aria hadn’t gotten the chance to replace it. He took another step and all hell broke loose. That anxiety—the sinking feeling of helplessness dissipated and he was left with… with… relief.

Relief.

Could it be because Shane was there with him? Watching him like he told him to? Or was it something else?

He’s felt like this before; an emotion that poured from his limbs as he walked closer to the tools. The closer he got, the more detailed they appeared before his eyes—power-saws, hammers, wrenches and screwdrivers. A few of them rustier than others, cultivated with years of work or washed. The tools look brittle, like they had been sold off when they broke or did not function like they used to, growing dull with time. The sense of urgency in Ryan’s brain returned as he placed the audio recorder down, turned it on, and picked up a hammer by its handle.

“If there’s anybody here,” he observed the hammer carefully, he felt nothing else at this point but its uncomfortable weight. A strange sensation of emptiness, “could you tell me your name?”

Nothing. At least, at the time it’s nothing. Ryan was mindful to listen, usually he was. He asked normal questions repeatedly, sometimes lifting up different tools from the box. By the end of it, his questions were left unanswered and his hands reeked of metal. 

_Come on_.

_There has to be something_.

In the end, there was nothing and the emotions that mixed together in the core of his soul had eventually passed. Almost as if whatever he was feeling was solved in a matter of minutes. There was no doubt about it—if it wasn’t these tools, it had to be an object in the shop.

Aria hadn’t left her post during Ryan’s session, discreetly clearing up her front desk and looked up when she felt Ryan’s eyes on her. “Nothing?”

“No… no, uh,” Ryan blinked, “do you mind if we stay longer? We don’t know what we’re looking for here so—”

“Oh!” She jumped, she waved her hand at him, “of course! Stay for dinner. The trip back must be far, you’ll feel better once you have food in you.”

“We don’t mean to impose,” Shane made the effort to sound flattered, he had been sitting in a chair beside her and had his eyes on Ryan for a while before he noticed him stop talking to himself.

Aria chuckled, bending down behind the counter and picking herself up a few trinkets from what Ryan could tell was a chest. Walking forward, his suspicion were correct, although it wasn’t anything that he thought to be remotely dangerous to them. “You won’t,” she reassured jovially as Ryan stood before Shane, who mouthed _are you okay?_ to him. 

Distracted, Ryan nodded twice before motioning to his discarded backpack. As Shane and Ryan were in their own bubble, Aria's voice from underneath the counter rang out: “if you’re both unsure, you could help out in the kitchen. How does mushroom soup sound to you?”

Sharing a look, Shane shrugged his shoulders, “a meal won’t hurt,” the added _besides, we’ll be helping and making sure she’s not poisoning us_ was left unsaid but Ryan knew that was part of Shane’s concern. He stood, “do you have any water?”

“Of course,” Aria walked around the front desk, disappearing into a connected room that had been covered with purple beads hanging from the doorway. Without another second, she returned with a closed water bottle and tossed it to Shane, “let me finish up and we’ll head out, sound good?”

With a nod, Shane took Ryan’s wrist, two of his fingers resting on his pulse. It startled Ryan enough to drop his backpack on the chair that Shane had been sitting on, devoting all of his attention to Shane. “You look a bit disoriented, this is for you,” Shane whispered, pulling back his fingers and opening the water bottle first. He took a drink, small enough to have water left over but enough to test if it would kill them. “There, that way we’ll die together.”

"If she wanted us dead, which I wouldn't blame her we're both buttheads," Ryan ignored Shane's _hey!_ and shrugged, "she would have done it months ago."

Ryan didn't question his trust anyway and drank the entire bottle, as he silently composed himself (unaware that he had been clammy from sweat,) Shane took hold on his wrist again, attentively checking his pulse. “Your pupils were dilated earlier, I’m just checking if you're alright.”

As Shane said this, Ryan rolled his eyes in giddy annoyance, and stood still. Shane shifted his fingers over Ryan’s wrist, his fingertips soft to the touch on Ryan's arm, their skin differed in complexion as Ryan watched him. Shane's jaw tightened then, his eyes flashed with trepidation. “What?” Ryan wondered, sighing after gulping down more of his water, “what is it?”

“I can’t feel anything,” Shane mumbled to himself, “what about—your heartbeat?” 

It was abrupt, of course it was. If anybody asked Ryan about his heartbeat, he would try to count it himself, but as soon as he felt Shane’s hand below his collarbone, resting on where his heart would be, then he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Ryan was startled, rightfully so, enough to impede any response other than to cover Shane's hand with his own.

Shane’s eyes lifted to meet his own for a moment, mentally asking if it was alright to do this, to which Ryan let him because honestly, what did he have to lose? Ryan looked for Aria at the time, thanking that her focus wasn’t on them for now. 

“Ryan, what’s wrong?”

Ryan's jaw dropped, he realized he had been gaping for a minute. He turned to Shane, “hmm?”

“Your heart is beating fast,” Shane said, his hand pressed on Ryan's chest and shifted Ryan's above his, “are you okay?”

His cheeks were flushed too now that he thought about it. Was he coming down with a fever? No, that couldn’t be it, although his partner had been ill and around him, Ryan made sure to be cautious when it comes down to the flu. Instead, he shook his head and replied: “nothing is wrong. That’s because—”

Because of what?

Couldn’t think of the word. He didn't feel ill or have a migraine, he felt… excited? Happy? 

No… could it be…

Ryan brought himself to inhale deeply, concentrate on the warmth of Shane’s hand on his chest and _calm_ down but then he met Shane’s eyes again and he saw the apparent worrisome expression. “It’s getting faster, are you sick?”

“No,” he verbalized softly, almost as if he was refusing what was happening to him. His tone had been mumbled, and he wasn't sure Shane heard him the first time around. Shane's eyebrows rose as Ryan felt his cheeks redden, “n— _no_. I’m—hungry? That's—that's it, I'm hungry, man.”

He pulled himself together and stepped out of Shane’s bubble, his hand curling away from Ryan’s chest as he pretended to busy himself with his backpack. His ears grew hotter, but he knew it was best to ignore it.

Ryan was no fool. He was old enough to grow up with crushes and lovers—those who had promised to be with him forever and those who he dearly loved and still do. He knew what it was like to think about them, to talk to them and for them to _touch_ him. It couldn’t be the same here, Shane was his best friend, his companion and his temporary partner. 

Once he solves this case, it will be all over. 

He promised himself to stop thinking about it.

Even if Shane’s attention was directed over to Aria, who announced that she was finished and asked for help in the kitchen—his heart will be quieter.

(He told himself that and ignored that he truly couldn’t stop thinking about it.)

* * *

After dinner, they had planned to return back to their work and head back to Chicago before the sun went down. Instead, Aria’s presence was mischievous and amusive that they had forgotten why they had gone there in the first place. Shane was reluctant to show emotion to her or Ryan, but his expression softened after talking to her. Even after their impromptu phone calls in two months ago, Shane mustered up the confident to confine in her.

Dinner wasn’t terrible either. Being a fan of soup (both Shane and himself,) they devoured two single bowls before ending the night talking to Aria. She had apologized over the mess to which they were gifted with herbal tea that she taught them to make whenever they felt under the weather. Ryan’s failed attempt at contacting ghosts wasn’t a secret, although Aria volunteered to listen to playback audio, she frowned at him when she couldn’t listen to anything in particular being said back to him.

“It works sometimes,” Aria consoled as she slid the audio device to Ryan’s side, “I like to think ghosts are timid or weak, they possibly couldn’t talk to us that way. More tea?” She picked up the handle of the kettle resting beside her and filled Ryan's cups when he bobbed his head.

“What do you think makes them want to communicate?” Shane spoke up, being the one that had been pessimistic over _talking to spirits,_ his question was a bit of a sudden development on his part. “I mean, energy, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Aria nodded to herself, blowing over her cup of tea, “I think it’s different for all of us. Ryan could agree,” she smiled at him, “I personally believe that they could manipulate energy to their advantage but also…um, it’s a bit much.”

“It is your opinion, we won’t discourage it,” Ryan assured her, who were they to say what is wrong and right? They were chasing what they thought was a demon and instead ended up with a serial killer.

“Um,” Aria averted her eyes, “I do think that we’re born with a reason, and that if it isn’t fulfilled during our time alive, it continues in the afterlife. Like… for example. You don’t get to follow your dream, you die and continue to try and fight for it. Or…” her expression turned solemn, “when you’re killed, you want to communicate to the living to avenge your life. I believe that your soul will strive to find peace. I don’t know... it's crazy.”

“Life after death isn’t something I thought about. Until I met him,” Shane quipped, his smile grew when he pointed his thumb at Ryan, “it’s not crazier than the shit I’ve seen with him. Trust me, that’s very tame and you have the right to think that’s what happens to us as humans.”

“Oh? I see,” Aria nodded to herself, “as a skeptic, you might find it easy to go through life not wondering about the after.”

“It’s a curse and a blessing,” he teased, and again, he spoke about Ryan as if he weren't in the room with him: “I do want to understand what the little guy's life is like. I’m not clairvoyant or under average height.”

“ _None_ of us are,” Ryan declared, glaring at Shane and turning back to Aria to reassure her: “I’m not clairvoyant.”

She hummed, “maybe, maybe not. If Shane believes you are, then he’s a step closer to entering our world.” She leaned over the table somewhat, squinting her eyes wittily at both of them, “do you want to see something that could change your mind?”

“He has an enormous thick skull,” Ryan tried to get the last insult in their offhanded bickering and stood up from the kitchen table, “if you could change his mind somehow, I’ll commend you for it.”

Thrilled, Aria nearly leapt from the table, her covered feet making short, thumps over to the shop. Her figure disappeared through the purple beads and Ryan was left uncertain to follow or to stay where he was before her voice bellowed. “Come here! It’s closing time!”

“Shane?” Ryan whispered, “should we go?”

“She’s not going to do anything to us,” Shane stood up, “you said it yourself. If she wanted us dead, she would have done it months ago, where there weren't any shopkeepers peeking in. Come on,” he held Ryan’s shoulder and walked them both out.

Aria was already out in the front door, waving her goodbyes on the other side of the window to those heading home for the day. Despite them arriving later in the day, Aria hadn’t been blessed with customers during the entire time they were here. He wasn't surprised, business would typically be slow on nights like these—where snow congregated on the roadways, and looked as if a storm was heading their way.

Closing the door, Ryan noticed that she did not lock it, neither did she block their hopes of escape as she walked behind the counter. “Every night after closing, I talk to the spirits that may reside here. Sometimes I speak to them to guide them or ask them kindly to not mess up the store while I sleep.”

Laughing, she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and took out something from the counter. “Here,” hanging on her index finger was a chain connected by a roseate crystal. Abnormal in shape, not nearly as perfect as a crystal should be, but still radiating pulses of energy strong enough to enthrall Ryan's curiosity. “Take it,” she encouraged, “you should get a feel for it. Shane too.”

Ryan let out his hand, watching as the pendulum rested on the palm of his hand. It was light, bizarrely enough that it felt fragile to have it in his grasp. Without warning, Shane took it from him carefully, running his thumb over the sharp crevices of the crystal: “what does this do? Protect you?”

“It could if I want it to,” Aria replied. “I have many with different purposes. That one is used to communicate. This shop may be tiny, but I often misplace items. Somehow the pendulum leads me to them, ah—here—”

She reached for Ryan’s hand, motioning for Shane to come closer to her. “Because you’re... hardheaded as Ryan says, I won’t do it. You seem to trust Ryan, enough for him not to deceive you. The pendulum is a symbol for communication, so, hold his hand up over his other one, yes, then wrap the chain around his finger.”

Even though she instructed Shane what to do, Shane was lost until he realized that he was doing it correctly. Making sure Ryan’s hands were steady, Aria explained, “I consider a _yes_ to the right of you and _no_ to the left, if that's what you’ll go with. You can begin anytime.”

Reluctant, Ryan stared at the quartz before he turned back to Aria, “is there… is there anybody here?”

He didn't move, neither did the pendulum in his grasp, he felt like he had been holding his breath before he felt movement on his finger. It was gentle, neither of them could distinguish an answer to the question before it had swung distinctly to his right.

He must be doing something—he had to be, it scared him enough to stop the motion altogether and bundle up the pendulum in his fist. “I didn't do that—I—”

“I’m not saying you didn't,” suddenly, Shane’s voice echoed above his own, and then, the man who he had known to call _bullshit_ whenever ghosts were mentioned, took Ryan’s curled fist and placed it above his own hand, “I trust you, keep going.”

Still, Ryan hesitated, but soon after realizing that he wasn’t alone, he finally opened his fist and uncurled his clenched fingers. Above hovered the transparent gem, over Ryan and Shane’s hands, he exhaled. 

“My name is Ryan, this is Shane,” he said with a gesture of his chin, “if you’d like to speak with us, now is your time. We can keep it simple, if you want to talk to us, move this crystal to my right.”

Overall, the action lasted a brief second before the pendulum fell silent again, he must have missed it from its immediate reply but Shane gave him a stern nod to continue, “do you know what this store is? Do you frequent here?”

Ryan’s heart was nearly out of his chest, from the two previous questions he’s asked, the answer here was the quickest and most apparent of them all. He didn't know the art to this necessarily but he wasn’t controlling the pendulum. Every time he asked a question, his still finger felt a slight movement from the chain hanging from it.

Though, he didn't find anything wrong—actually, he had felt this way before.

Back in August, he stepped into Mary and Isabelle’s bedrooms. Both distinctively different sisters, nothing out of the ordinary as they were fifteen years of age, fresh into junior high and closer to independence. It was nothing less of a tragedy that they had encountered—so then, the emotions began to pour into his soul.

He felt sorrowful, melancholic of those two twins that lost their lives on what could have been a joyful summer break. He didn't know them and yet, he felt like he'd talked to them before.

That’s when it hit him, halfway into a question, he gaped and stared at the paused pendulum. 

In Mary’s room, the diary—that diary.

“Mary?”

The pendulum was still, unruffled after being vocal for five minutes. Eventually, Ryan’s eyes widened when the crystal moved to his right side, instantly after the disruptive agony on his shoulder returned. He grimaced, throwing it out of his mind and squirmed; he waited for the pendulum to stop in the middle of his palm and took a deep breath.

“If this is Mary— _ouch,_ _fuck_ ,” Ryan couldn’t ignore it anymore, he took the pendulum’s chain off his finger and coiled his body as if something had pierced through his back. His shoulder _burned_ , nothing that could have been inevitable in the first place. He stopped and took deep breaths, noticing that Shane reached for him. 

“Ryan—Ryan, whoa, are you okay?”

He wasn’t, he really fucking wasn’t. It hurt like a bitch, literally tearing him to pieces from the inside out and he finally took the strength he had left to hang the pendulum above his palm, “are—are you doing this?”

He didn't want it to be true, if it was Mary Roseberry he was speaking to (even if it was a reach, as the item he was using to communicate with her was a _pendulum_ ,) he left out a soft sigh when it swung to his left. The pain crept to his chest as he tried to ask another question when he realized the swinging did not stop.

The force of the chain overpowered his numb fingers and before he knew it, he lost control of the pendulum. Whoever had the energy to swing it from left to right had done so without discretion. It was ludicrous to watch until Ryan had felt excruciating agony on his shoulder as the pendulum teetered in his grasp and launched itself to the front desk a couple of feet away from him.

He barely paid attention to the sound of glass against a hard surface as he fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder before he felt Shane next to him and holding him upward. It throbbed, it fucking _throbbed_ and he begged it to stop when he noticed that there was shattered glass beside him.

Forcing himself to breathe, Ryan lifted his head up and saw the pendulum once wrapped around his finger destroyed, landing on the binder Aria had on her desk. His forehead creased and he stood, hand on his shoulder and languidly stepped forward to read _customers - November 1988_. Other tabs to the different months of the year were labeled in orange, though, the binder went back to 1986, whereas Aria had this store since she was a teenager.

This had been a clue before, when Aria had sworn that she sold jewelry found in all crime scenes to a man in '84. 

Whoever that was, still led to the mystery they’re trying to solve today. So then, did this have anything else to do with them?

“Ryan? Are you okay? Come on, Ryan—say something, tell me you’re fine—”

Ryan nodded unconsciously, the rest of the day taking a toll on him, more than he thought possible. “Yeah, I think I need to close my eyes.”

He couldn’t explain what had happened to him before this moment, much less what happened to him afterwards. What he did realize after a second or two was Aria worryingly checking him for injuries and reminding him that it wasn’t his fault the pendulum was now in hundreds of pieces.

Before he knew it, he was sitting on the passenger side of Shane’s car. Head lolled to his shoulder, eyes half-dropped as he forced himself to wake up and acknowledge the headache that slithered through his entire being. Groaning, his hands reached over the dashboard and the glove compartment before Shane could speak.

“There aren’t any pills for you here, I’ll get you some when we get to the hotel.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ryan swore under his breath, closing the compartment and leaning back on the cushioned seat, mindful not to hurl. He tried to focus on the silence within their car ride for a moment before he realized he couldn’t. The memory of what occurred in Aria’s shop was fresh in his mind, and even though he believed in the supernatural, he didn't think to encounter anything like _that_.

And his shoulder—

Truly, the last thing he wanted to do was rub it in Shane’s face, his _I_ _told you so_ became _what should they do now_?

What is Shane going to do now?

Ryan opened his eyes, adjusting to the highway lights illuminating his face through the window and he admired Illinois' snowfall. He could sleep longer if he had ibuprofen. He tried to keep his thoughts together until he felt a warm hand on his knee, holding his boney knee and patting it.

“Stop thinking too hard. I can hear it.”

Ryan wished he had a counter joke to throw in there, an insult that he could suavely come up with and have Shane laugh at him and they’ll talk for the rest of the night about cinematic masterpieces. But that wasn’t possible, Shane hasn’t genuinely smiled in months.

The quietude persisted, suffocating Ryan and pressuring him into doing nothing but settle in his dull pain. He flailed when his head throbbed, his mouth transformed into a scowl and he couldn’t abstain to ignore it anymore. He looked out the window, counting the streetlights when the hand on his knee moved, he barely noticed and didn't feel the need to comment.

“Ryan.”

“Nngh?” It was what Ryan could muster at the time, though his attention trailed to Shane. He expected a concerned look towards him, when Shane rolled Ryan's knee with his hand. At this time, Ryan knew he was mentally telling himself to forget about it and change the subject, but Ryan beat him to it, lifting himself from the seat to look at him properly. “What is it, man?”

“I—I’m going back to work. It might be foolish and I might be stupid to think about it, but I want to solve this case. I don’t want the victim’s or—” he stopped himself, “I don’t want Garrett’s death to be a result of a cold case. It isn’t _me_ to abandon family members without answers or turn away from grieving when it's most important. It seems like I forgot that you were mourning too.”

“That’s why—I want to continue this case with you. If you want to, that is. I know that it will be hard on you and I know that I’ve said some harsh things to you back then. If you’re not ready to seek help, that’s alright too. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there for you.” Shane paused, there wasn’t much going on in the highway towards Chicago on a night like this, still Shane didn't feel the need to risk their lives by looking at him. Maybe it was easier on his part to keep from making eye contact for now.

"It'll—" Shane started, his hand squeezed Ryan's knee, "we'll be okay. Everything is going to be okay."

_Do you promise_?

Ryan’s expression relaxed, he closed his mouth and leant back on the passenger seat. The acrid pain on his shoulder lessened, though he was heedful in moving his arm around. Though, without notice, he took Shane’s hand resting on his knee and held it. Ryan didn't need to reply, he squeezed Shane's hand as if to say:

_I’ll help you, I’ll be there with you._

_I’ll mourn with you._

_I’ll help you._

_I believe you_.

They didn't need words, not even when Shane squeezed his hand in retaliation and grew silent again. Ryan closed his eyes, leaning his head towards him, making sure that his hand was still on Shane’s and finally let his mind rest. He repeated Shane's words to himself, uttered them under his breath and soft enough that Shane hadn't reacted because he couldn't hear him. Ryan's eyes squinted after a moment, taking in the sight of the front view window and to Shane, who had his eyes on the road.

_We'll be okay._

It was Shane. He felt better when Shane consoled him, and there wasn't a question about it. 

What will he do when they eventually part ways?


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh brother, when I said a new update in a week or two, I DIDN'T MEAN A /MONTH/ HELLO HELLO!! LOTS OF THINGS HAPPENED AND IM BACK BABY!!! Obviously I hate leaving a story untouched for so long but trust me when I say that it was planned because it's near Ryan's birthday... so I decided hmmm, why not just have the FULL November experience unfold and let me tell you this chapter? A big one.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! A new turning point for the boys happens here and I'm so excited to finally see where the last five chapters will bring us! <3

**NOVEMBER 1988**   
**Chicago, Illinois**

Two days after returning to work, Shane found himself dragged into Eugene’s office.

He left Shane a limited amount of time to process _why_ this was happening to him at 8 A.M before the brown paper bag that held his and Ryan’s delightful breakfast was taken out of his grasp by Steven and told (threatened) him to wait for Eugene in his office. That was twenty minutes ago, twenty minutes and no Eugene.

Shane’s been working for him for years (not really,) ever since he graduated college. He worked as a freelance detective before he met Eugene, which improved his credibility and never had complaints about his peculiar method of breaking into police cars or trespassing. (Ryan says he's making up excuses _just_ so he _could_ trespass and break into government official's cars without the cuffs.) So, he had no concern about being fired, because, in the end, he had all the possible motivation to leave if he desired.

That didn't stop him from jiggling his leg, squirming in his seat and waiting for Eugene in fear that he _would_ be fired. He wouldn’t be allowed to contact anybody working on the case by standard protocol, that included Ryan. It was a reach, but he didn't think that he would be—

A promotion?

No, not after he stepped down for months after Garrett’s death.

He pondered on what it could have been when he heard the office door open. Without thinking about it, Shane glanced over his shoulder and got an eyeful on someone that wasn’t Eugene.

Devon stood there, peeking her head in the crevice of the ajar door and smiled when her gaze landed on him. She stepped inside, with her usual formal attire, holding a pile of folders on her arm. “Good morning, detective. Long time no see.”

“I guess yesterday doesn’t count,” yesterday shouldn’t count, the berating that reached his ears from Devon was enough for him to cower away for the rest of the afternoon. He knew that she cared for him, a worrywart of a woman who trusted in her team enough to notify her on what to do and what to _not_ do. It seems that Shane Madej forgot to tell her that Ryan was with him when they went down to see Aria.

Thus, commended a shit-storm from his team directing their wrath on him. Glad to be back.

She shrugged her shoulders, almost as if it didn't _happen_ and sat on the chair beside him. Eugene’s office wasn’t anything to behold, not when this wasn’t his _real_ work area. In the department Shane worked at, Eugene set-up studies and homicidal cases on their floor, organizing them in bland cabinets by a mahogany desk. The computer monitor off and waiting for an owner to log their credentials sat here, collecting dust as Eugene didn't find himself often in an office like this.

(Another reason to doubt a resignation, Eugene would have called him into his elegant, larger office upstairs to humiliate him privately.)

“How long have you been here?” Devon asked, stacking the folders on the empty desk. She pushed a few canisters stocked with pens aside, making sure she had an arms reach to her work. 

Shane looked at his wrist watch, “thirty minutes. Have you seen Ryan?”

“Yeah,” she answered coolly, she didn't look at him as she did. It was no secret that Devon knew Shane would ask about Ryan any chance he got when they weren't working together, “he already ate if that’s what you’re really asking. He’s at the briefing with Steven and Katie.”

Fuck, Shane could only wish that Ryan didn't think both burritos were for him.

With his partner out of the way and accounted for, Shane returned his attention to the matter at hand. It appeared that he wasn’t the only person called out for Eugene. He had his suspicions to believe Devon wasn't about to be let go, “what are we doing here? Has there been a lead that you and I are meant to talk about?”

“Sort of,” Devon replied, crossed her leg over another, leant back on the visitor's chair and looked at him. “I can’t talk about it until Eugene gets here. During your hiatus, I went to New York. I think we have an advantage in this case.” She could have left it at ‘New York’ and Shane would have clarified the purpose of Eugene's meeting.

Shane had his share of trips to New York for briefings with their sister location. While Shane wasn’t inclined of introducing himself to other investigators, his interest lied on forensic scientists who had their own experiences solving cases. Most of the cases in New York—and other developing cities—had leverage for crime scene investigation due to advanced discovery of forensics.

While the process was in its first stage—New York has been gambling with D.N.A for years. If there was anything that could account for a huge discovery in blood samples, then they _would_ be a step further than before. While D.N.A forensics took months to years to perfect and it was still considered in beta testing, Shane would take his chances and hope that Chicago will be able to send out any profiling evidence from his case.

_Could he send anything down from…_

_Could he?_

The slam of Eugene’s office door brought him back to reality. He looked over at Devon first, making sure that she was far away from the door than he was before he found the assailant who entered the office. There were a handful of trespassers that entered their building before and while Eugene’s office had been locked with a code that his team solely knew, it still left him leery until he saw Eugene’s figure in the room.

Handsome and out-of-breath, Eugene held a hand on his chest and exhaled, “I couldn’t get away from Keith.”

“Almost an hour?” in unison, Devon and himself confronted, sharing their thoughts to Eugene who ignored their attempt to call him out and walked over to the dormant chair.

“I respect him, I do,” Eugene continued and ended the conversation there, oblivious of their eyes glaring directly at him as if it didn't bother him. Most likely, it didn't. Eugene was a hard person to crack, he had his walls up and around him at all times, having zero issues on expressing himself when the opportunity favored it. He was somebody Shane admired and looked up to—whenever he wasn’t late.

Finally on his seat, Eugene sighed and intertwined his hands on the desk before him. It took him two seconds before he realized that neither of them would say the first word and he extended his hands, “I’m _sorry_ I’m late, I'm sure Devon has a shit-ton of work to do, and you," he pointed at Shane, "are dying to see Bergara, I know, _I'm sorry_ you aren't with your boyfriend."

Shane tilted his head, unamused that one, he doesn't know _why_ he's here and two, Ryan _wasn't_ here. Eugene went on, "honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to sit in this ugly ass chair but Keith had me in a chokehold since I arrived. Besides, I was on a call with New York to confirm Devon’s findings.”

Shane straightened up, he crossed his leg over the other, “which are?”

Reaching for her folders, she tossed one to Shane’s lap and gestured the remaining one over to Eugene. “I’ve been in contact with the forensics team in New York since September. Although it was futile to continue to persuade them to follow-up on any potential discoveries in DNA, they finally came back with a lead on their side.”

Skimming over the words in the documents, Shane skillfully looked over pages of printed emails and transcripts of the conversation between biological scientists and the forensics team. He wasn’t a scientist, it wasn’t his field of expertise, but basic science gave him an idea of what he was reading. 

“In March of 1976, a woman in Jacksonville, Florida was brutally murdered,” Devon told them, “on page seven, you could see the pictures at the scene of the crime. There was a substantial amount of blood that New York assumed was hers, dirt under her nails and a towel that was, at the time, theorized to clean up the perpetrator's wounds.”

“In October of 1988, a month ago, the case reopened and the woman’s ex-husband was arrested for first-degree murder of his ex-wife. He is going to trial next year.”

Shane and Eugene shared a look, directing his attention from the homicidal case before him. Befuddled, Shane’s eyebrows furrowed, “he confessed?”

“No,” Devon replied, “DNA.”

Shane's eyebrows lifted and he turned his attention over to his coworker, Devon continued, “the towel found on the scene of the crime was taken to New York after the case closed that same year. It was left for scientists to analyze for further research. They found a unique trait on the towel that they believe could be traced to her fingernails.”

“It seems like she fought her way from her attacker. Skin cells were found in the crevice of her fingernails, identical to the blood on the towel that lead to a ninety-nine percent match on the ex-husband.”

“And all of this was proven?”

Devon bobbed her head, “according to their research of two consecutive years, it was a one in two billion chance. They tried to match their studies to other convicted perpetrators within the vicinity of the crime with no trace of their DNA. But if this is true…”

“Then we can send evidence to them,” Shane pondered to himself, “is this the only case they reopened?”

Devon reached back to the folder, turned to a different page, Shane grimaced at the brutal photographs of numerous crimes until he realized that they were all different. She didn't stop until she found the need to, “nope, there are over one-hundred fifty and counting cases that are reaching out to New York for evidence. All from different states.”

“Most, if not all, are investigating convicted murderers from cold cases reaching back to 1950,” Eugene chimed in, “New York confirmed this today.”

He knew that forensics worked their ass off tying in clues from crime scenes in the endless hours of the night, but was this as much of a reach to consider? Could it be possible that he could catch this killer? The killer who took the lives of two young girls, an innocent woman and a family man? 

Of his friend?

All by tracing D.N.A?

“Shane,” Devon called for him, her hand on his shoulder, “this can help us, we just need evidence that could link us to the killer.”

That’s where the problem lied.

“We’ll have to get permission to exhume the bodies, not to mention,” Shane threw the folder on Eugene’s desk, watching it slide comically towards Eugene, “we don’t have any of the murder weapons—what are the chances that they trace unknown DNA?”

Devon frowned, her expression dulled, “it’s high, about a thirty to forty percent chance. Manufactured items may have DNA from other people aside from the killer. If we were to send a piece of evidence, it would take months to analyze and results may come out as Mary’s or Isabelle’s or _hundreds_ of unknown DNA. We’re going to have to stick with fingerprints and blood samples.”

“There’s a wait time too, we’re not the only ones eager to send our evidence to be looked into.”

Shane observed his colleagues, who had looked at him with an look that told him _we need you for this_ , he finally understood why he was called into Eugene’s office in the first place. “You want me to search the Roseberry house again?”

“We’re missing something,” Devon stressed, “we have to be. Animal blood is potent, we could take a sample down to New York to see if it matches the lamb's rib bone found at Amari's. But we need something that could trace us to the killer somehow. If we find DNA on the girls—”

“The family would never let us exhume them,” Shane scoffed, “they _reluctantly_ lent us their house. There aren’t any murder weapons, not much that we can work with.”

“Ryan found something before,” Eugene mentioned as if it was brand-new information, “take him back to see if there’s anything you missed. You have to find _something quick_ , Madej. We’re in line to send our evidence two days from now and if you don’t find anything,” Eugene stood up from his chair, an apathetic expression crossed his face before Shane could blink, “you’ll be in serious shit. Check all locations for anything we could have missed, we will try to gain the families’ permission for the bodies to be exhumed. This stays between us and Ryan, not the media.”

Take Ryan to find evidence?

Was there something he missed at the Roseberry house?

Was he obligated to retrace his steps to begin anew? If that was what was happening—it what's _been_ happening every month. Look into the case again, almost as if it were the first time, making sure there was something he missed to send out for an encounter at a lead.

He was desperate. 

It didn't hurt to try.

“We’ll send out all physical evidence we have and ask for consent on exhumation. I’m taking Ryan to look at the Roseberry scene. Treat this case like we’re starting all over again.” He extended his hand and grabbed Eugene’s car keys, he took Devon’s folder, and promptly left the two of them behind. There was little time to work with, the killer could have been a step ahead of them before they even _thought_ about it.

To solve this case, Shane would have to think like the killer himself.

Paying careful attention to his surroundings, he went to look for his partner. 

Ryan sat in the meeting room alone, paperwork surrounded him as his eyes trained on the book he read. It was foretelling and the opposite of what Shane was thinking, before he knew it, the lights of the meeting room flickered and Ryan turned to look at him. Without question, he stood and followed him out of the department and to (seriously, this time around,) Eugene’s car.

He explained himself on the way there, Ryan with his nose deep into the folder and recoiled when he turned to a new page. “They can trace DNA? What about the necklaces?”

“Yes, we’ll try our hand at those,” Shane said to him, eyes on the road, “in the meantime, we’ll investigate anything in the house.”

“If we only had the lawnmower,” Ryan muttered to himself, and covered his mouth with his hand when he looked at Devon's folder. He closed it after, unable to stomach another photograph of a corpse, “or any of the murder weapons. Fuck, even Mr. Amari’s car would help.”

“That means that our suspect has all of the items in their possession, otherwise, we could have found them. We just have to find something they must have unintentionally left behind.”

With a quick glance to Ryan’s side, he saw his partner deep in thought. Whatever he was thinking about most of the time went by Shane’s head—although he could never know without asking—he let Ryan deduce an opinion of his own. He could care less about shit that people spew on the television for money or power over those who are most vulnerable, Ryan had a gift and he trusted his word above anybody else.

Ryan has felt something in this house.

“What?” He inquired, “what is it?”

First Ryan was silent, after a moment he opened his mouth and took the folder in his hands. “Upstairs, there was a diary. At the time I didn't think anything about it but we should get permission to take it.”

A diary? From one of the girls?

“Alright,” Shane agreed and nodded, “I’ll let Eugene know, what else?”

Ryan went quiet, though as Shane suspected, he was pondering more than usual. Shane tried to focus on the road, though Ryan had not spoken after a couple of minutes. Alarmed, Shane glanced at him, “come on, tell me. I promise I won’t spill.”

“I don’t remember searching the kitchen,” Ryan whispered, his voice had been utterly low that Shane was close to missing what he said.

That’s right, did Ryan search the kitchen? 

It was part of Ryan’s five step routine of checking these crime scenes by looking at the crevices that you would _never_ think about. He had a habit of doing it behind Shane’s back, whether it had been a peek of his surroundings where he stood or physically locating hex bags. It’s what led him to discover Mr. Amari without thinking about it.

To Garrett.

“I think I didn't want to, I remember the words on the wall. But I wanted to search the upstairs.”

“Do you think something was making you think that way?”

Ryan grew quiet, “I don’t know.”

The rest of the car ride was left in their mutual silence, from time to time, Shane would look at Ryan and catch him staring off into space or reading Devon’s documents. By the time they arrived at the Roseberry house, Ryan was caught off-guard and walked out first. The house was the same, nothing left other than the grass that grew enormously tall over the months. Neighboring houses had FOR SALE signs on their front lawn, and a ten minute walk led them to Parker’s old residence, closed off for investigators.

The crime scenes had officers on sight most of the time, routinely switching shifts to make sure nobody had trespassed or contaminated the scene. Shane was uncertain of how many times teenagers would try to stake it out and stay a night over to trash the place and brag about it, he couldn’t blame them, it was tempting to steal from one of the worst houses in Chicago.

Walking in, Shane was caught with the overbearing stench of stale dust, empty with household items but left with its furniture intact. The dark atmosphere of the house fit well, and as he tried to turn the lights on, he was met with nothing. Trusting outdoor lighting, he stepped in the house again. 

A twinge of trepidation ran through his veins and he flashed back to July when the sun shone its brightest and TJ gagged at the sight. He turned to the living room, the tape remained with no sign of blood left on the floor. He felt Ryan’s shoulder graze by his arm and he covered his mouth with his hand to avoid breathing in dust.

“The house changed.”

Shane knew Ryan didn't mean it _literally_ , the house didn't move from its plot. He slumped his shoulder, “maybe after you saw the crime scene pictures more than a hundred times, it sticks with you.”

“Right,” Ryan sighed, turning away from the living room and back to the upstairs. “I’m going upstairs first, I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

Pride bubbled in the pit of Shane’s stomach, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of yellow gloves for Ryan, “look at you, taking the initiative. I'm almost proud. Go out there little guy, investigate your heart out.”

Ryan blinked, the corners of his mouth twitched as he stopped himself from giving Shane a smile. His eyes dropped as he ignored Shane and walked up the stairs anyway. When he was out of sight, Shane cautiously entered the kitchen. As he expected, it never changed. A few months ago, Eugene had instructed the forensics team to board up the backdoor, it was unaccessible to anybody (including him.)

A thin layer of dust daubed over the kitchen table, the counters and appliances left behind. He’s searched through all of them, inspecting the food that was sent out to be thrown away or donated after meticulous investigation, anything that could have thrown him off a little bit.

The wall also didn't change.

The tape stuck to the tall even after months, now the darkest color with the drained bucket and left untouched. With his gloved hand, he bent down on the ground, evading the bucket and took out a sticky note to label it as evidence to send away for NY. He instructed Ryan to do the same on anything he deemed important to be investigated. Although they had a time limit, it wasn’t wise to send _everything_ down for unnecessary research.

However, he knew that the bucket may have been the Roseberry’s, he stuck it on without hesitation. 

He stood and paused.

_Look for places you wouldn’t think to look_.

Walking away, he turned and… looked. He reached for items with his gloved hand, searching the bottoms of salt shakers, under the table, under the table _cloth_ , he even searched the rooster that collected dust on the stove top. He opened counters, took out drawers and moved utensils around, digging through mail that the Roseberrys left behind and found nothing. He was on his last counter when his hip accidentally bumped into something.

A drawer, half-opened with a spatula restricting it from closing. His forehead creased, he’s seen this before. Opening it intently, he peeked inside the drawer and found nothing. Irrelevant utensils, a pocketbook and a few items that could be used for baking. He sighed, closing it flimsily and told himself that—

There was a thump. It resonated from the upstairs, though, above the kitchen wasn’t Mary or Isabelle’s room. Shane felt his heart beat faster, he stood still and listened for another. After a moment, his worry grew and he frantically wanted to look for Ryan. The kitchen had nothing but a roof above it, Ryan couldn’t have made that noise and although nothing had been above him he called out. 

Opening the kitchen door, he yelled, “Ryan?”

Ryan, coming out of Mary’s room with the spirit box on hand turned to Shane. He looked unharmed, for the most part, taking his time to reach downstairs before he spluttered: “a drawer—check a drawer. In the kitchen—”

A drawer?

In the kitchen?

“How—how do you know that?” But Shane was back in the kitchen before he knew it. He opened the drawer, looking inside again, digging through the utensils and training his ears to the static resounding through the sprit box that Ryan turned on before walking in the kitchen.

“Did you find anything?”

No—he wanted to say. Impatiently going through it before giving in and trying to yank it out when Shane felt the drawer stop. 

He wiggled it, or at least tried to. The drawer did not budge as he wanted to take it out, he didn't have much of a problem with the others, could it be that this one didn't open or close fully? Could that explain it being half open this entire time.

There was something behind it.

He pushed, digging his hands into the sides of the drawer and tried to remove it from the counter. After a second, he pulled it out, the utensils inside of the drawer scattered around, some crashing onto the floor but the object that had kept the drawer from opening had fallen out.

Seeing a bloody washcloth hang out from the empty drawer spot left Shane stunned. He didn't think to touch it, and instead he inspected it diligently before he turned to Ryan. 

“Get your stuff, we've got something.”

Ryan didn't need to be told twice, and as he turned back into the foyer, Shane placed the drawer on the table and took out a ziplock bag from his jacket. Hooking the washcloth from the counter, being as it had dried with crimson blood that surrounded it, once it had been white, identical to the one hung on the Roseberry oven handle.

It belonged to the Roseberrys.

That led him to another question. Did the killer leave with an injury?

When Ryan returned to the kitchen, Shane had the washcloth securely packed away and the rest of the kitchen in disarray. 

“Look at what your clairvoyant little mind got me doing,” he joked, a slight sign of a smile traced on his face, “I made a mess.”

* * *

The appointment was at nine in the morning and Ryan would have missed it if he hadn’t already had a prior commitment to tend to. 

Despite arriving at the department three hours ago, Ryan squirmed in his seat and held his second cup of coffee over his lap. Unclear of what made him the most fidgety, he decided to stare at the wall in front of him and tune out the sounds of people speaking over each other around him. Because of the open hallway, he noticed officers walking past him, paying little to no attention at the guy sitting pathetically by the counselor's office.

(He almost felt as if he had returned to high school, sent out to the principal due to being a casual jokester.

Which wasn't rare, in the unfair occasions he had, he wanted to stand up and leave to show that he _didn't_ do anything wrong. He almost wanted to do that here, to which he stopped himself because Kelsey would have ripped him a new one after the efforts she took to arrange a session in the first place.

Ryan shut his mouth when she blatantly told him that he needed an evaluation anyway.)

Zach Kornfeld was the counselor’s name. Ryan never met the man in person, but he had heard of him on news reports and newspaper columns back in L.A. He is Eugene Yang’s childhood friend, with a degree in sociology and strove to become somebody employees can go to for guidance or to have someone to talk to. 

(“He’s not a therapist,” Shane ensured after Kelsey announced the appointment date and Ryan instantly refusing to undergo with what he presumed as an intervention. “Zach evaluates all employees, he’s a good guy.”

“What if he asks about my nightmares and I can’t give an answer?” Ryan whispered to Shane, he sat beside him and felt himself tremble with dread to mention his restlessness.

Shane turned to him, his features transformed into evident concern, then said: “how would he know about them? Unless you tell him, he won’t know about it.”)

Ryan knew this wasn’t an adverse scheme between Kelsey and Shane—he had sought out his disinterest in therapy to 'cure him,' or to judge him of his laughable dramatics. Still, he understood why he was sent out in the first place.

As much as Shane tried, Ryan’s trips to the clinic couldn’t be looked past by Eugene.

After seeing the horrific measures taken by Ryan’s own hand to his shoulder, Eugene opted for an alternative to help Ryan.

Unconsciously, Ryan lifted his hand over his right shoulder. The sedated ache resided whenever he touched it, though, it was tolerable as the scars healed. Besides his injured hand from two months ago, Ryan hadn’t felt anything in his life that restricted him from doing everyday things except this.

He couldn’t sleep properly, he couldn’t lift his right arm above his chest, and he couldn’t do anything without the need of ibuprofen in hand. He couldn’t live like this, he would be a liability.

Talking about his night terrors wouldn’t ‘fix’ him—he assumed talking about them would get him on the right track. Suddenly, he felt eyes on him, he froze and refused to look in their direction before he lowered his eyes on the floor, looking at the pairs of shoes passing by him.

Pressing his hand on the blade of his shoulder, Ryan heard his name echo through the corridor. He looked up, staring at the figure of Zach Kornfeld running up to him. Standing up, Ryan extended his hand to him, “Yes, that's me. Ryan Bergara.”

“I know,” Zach laughed and accepted his hand to shake, “I’m a big fan. Heard so much about you, it’s a pleasure.”

Zach was an inch taller than him, with glasses on the bridge of his nose that shaped his thin face. He wore attire suitable for the dress code, wandering around with nothing but a lanyard with his badge attached to it. He didn't work twenty-four-seven like Shane would, neither did he work _here_. But he had an office two floors above Shane's cubicle and rarely stepped into by Ryan himself.

“Eugene and Kelsey told me about you, they called it a ‘conversation with the paranormal investigator to see how he’s doing’ and added ‘without Shane Madej’ just to tease you.” He paused, stepping aside to open the door to his office, “come in, come in, make yourself at home.”

Without thinking too much about it, Ryan sat down on one of Zach’s chairs. His office was large enough to occupy a handful of people, nonetheless, only two chairs were present. Sitting down in front of Zach’s orderly desk, he took in his surroundings. The room was lit well-enough to see without additional light, the window blinds half open, outlining downtown Chicago. They were on the third floor, Ryan noted, without any way of looking from the outside.

He spotted bookshelves and picture frames, all the miscellaneous items that an office in their department would have. It wasn’t uncommon to borrow offices for the day; the meeting room was an extended example of what it meant to have a ‘temporary office.’ 

“Are you nervous?”

Interrupting his inner thoughts, Ryan turned his attention to the tame voice. He noticed that Zach hadn’t done anything but sit down himself—Ryan wondered if he had asked him something before. 

“I never been to therapy,” he confessed, disregarding the urge to grab onto his shoulder and rubbed his clammy hands on his jeans instead.

“I’m not going to ask you to open up to me right off the bat. Let’s start easy, how was your morning?’ Zach didn't correct him on this session _not_ being therapy for Ryan, if anything, he seemed as if he knew the fundamentals of Ryan’s career and what he’s worked on for the Roseberry case.

He could… talk about that.

“I—I met with Steven Lim early this morning. We joked around for a bit, I teased him about his recent dyed blue hair,” he recalled, a smile slowly spread into his face as he remembered teasing Steven, “we organized the evidence found in the Roseberry homicide case to send to New York for further testing. It was sent out an hour ago.”

Zach nodded, humming to himself and not taking any notes on Ryan’s words. He listened thoughtfully, “I heard that you found something at the Roseberry house from Eugene. What was it?”

Hesitant, Ryan wondered if it was alright to say it out-loud. He knew that Zach was under surveillance, working for an agency that had scrutiny and regulations over open investigations. He was dubious that Zach would snitch to social media for money, it was irresponsible to think about another coworker doing so but it crossed Ryan’s mind either way. 

Shane would be proud.

“I didn't find anything. I went upstairs as Shane searched the kitchen. I remembered that there was a diary—in Mary’s room so I wanted to see if we missed anything that she wrote down,” Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed, trying to remember the details of a few days ago. 

After investigating the crime scenes in order, Ryan’s daily tasks grew exponentially. He was busy talking to officers and his team for hours, making sure that their evidence was packed away and safely transported away. It became something in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t exactly forget what he experienced.

“I—I was upstairs and I decided to—” Ryan scoffed, “it’s dumb—”

“Say it anyway,” Zach encouraged, “nobody will judge you.”

Swallowing, Ryan tried to bring himself to speak, “I didn't find anything in Mary’s diary. There had been entry dates that did not follow chronological order. Like—” he gestured, “she skipped days, so I looked in the margins and realized they had been ripped off. I was going to tell Shane about it when something stopped me.”

“What stopped you?” Zach inquired, intertwining his hands over his desk.

Ryan grew quiet, his hand instinctively pressed on his other palm, kneading his fingers. After a pregnant pause, “the—there was a thud. It came from the roof but it was loud enough to scare me. At the same time I had—” Ryan paused, reaching for his backpack and dug through it without much caution. He scavenged through binders, limited film for his EVP, and finally, his spirit box. “This,” he showed Zach, who didn't have much of a response.

Zach narrowed his eyes before they rounded, “is this a paranormal device?”

“Yes,” Ryan placed it on Zach’s desk, free for him to examine if he wanted to. Zach didn't seem to resist and found Ryan’s spirit box intriguing. “It barely works. But it registers frequencies from local stations and scans through them rapidly. I can only keep it on for five to ten minutes before it runs out but—I had it on the entire time without much of a word uttered.”

“Until the thud?”

“Until the thud. I don’t know what it was but the spirit box spoke, mentioned a drawer in the kitchen three times before turning off.”

“Holy shit,” Zach mumbled out, putting the spirit box down, “do you have any proof this happened?”

Ryan sighed. His spirit box was flimsy—although it did its job—it didn't have any logs that he could go through whenever he wanted. After two days of using the damn thing, its job was done and it erased anything to make room for more. Whenever Ryan used the spirit box and it _may_ have worked, he looked at the transcript to see any spike but alas, there was nothing he could do to play the audio back.

Ryan’s word was the only thing that people had when it came to this.

“I don’t, unfortunately. I have the transcript of the sudden audio spike, it's just—when I left the room, I told Shane about it. That’s where he found the washcloth.”

Ryan knew it was a bit of reach when it first happened and recalled it to the team. He hadn’t thought to mention it at all before he saw Shane back in the Roseberry house. He blurted it out anyway, knowing full-well that Shane was in the kitchen the entire time. He never expected Shane to look at him as if _he_ were the ghost.

After it was discovered that a washcloth was found, covered in unknown blood, Shane and Ryan were sent back to the other crime scenes with nothing much to work with. They found nothing, but it was a step in the right direction. Ryan had been startled in Mary Roseberry's bedroom, trying to visualize why she had ripped out pages of her diary. If it _had_ been her. He remembered his hands on her desk, his legs walking away from her room and to the hallway after the thump had resounded from the roof, and he definitely remembered his premonition come true in the form of a sentence.

He wanted to believe that it was worth it in the end.

Nibbling on his bottom lip, Ryan waited for Zach to disregard his ramblings when he heard a whistle. “Holy shit man, that’s insane. That’s like some superhero shit.”

“Wh—really? What if I told you it was fake?”

“Are you kidding? It’s fucking crazy!” Zach exclaimed with a genuine smile, “I trust Shane, he wouldn’t stage a murder scene for the sake of it. Besides, you didn't go to the press about it, nobody knows about it! I can’t even explain it man, you have a gift.”

Ryan lowered his eyes, yeah, he’s starting to believe that too.

Over the years, Ryan overlooked what he has been told from Curly, from his mother, from _everyone_ around him about his sensitivity to spiritual activity. He was just a guy interested in the paranormal, and eventually—after becoming frightened at every location he’s visited—he wrote it off as getting used to it.

It was tolerable until his dreams skyrocketed in apparitions of murdered victims.

Two days ago, Ryan woke up in the middle of the night from the sensation of somebody’s eyes on him. His suspicions were correct and he stared in the eyes of Mary Roseberry.

She didn't talk, not much of a word from her mouth. She stood there, impassive and blinding him with her appearance. Of course Ryan panicked, though he kept it to himself at the time because, fuck, who else would believe him? He blamed it on the case first, pushing away the thought that she was in the room with him and gave in to think that it was due to sleep paralysis.

He would have moved on from that.

If only she had disappeared from view.

Mary Roseberry never left, much less didn't speak to him. She stared at him, unwarranted, though never really much of a person, a blurred phantom that you double-check after seeing it in the corner of your eye. She was in Zach's office, standing beside the window where the light hit it the most, the sun’s rays went through her unceremoniously and her white eyes never left him.

Sometimes she’ll go away but before Ryan knew it, she would return to him. It was effortless to lose sight of her, she was so thin and pallid that her figure would find itself to blend in with the walls. Ryan didn't know what broke the threshold between the spirit world and himself, but he taught himself that they couldn’t hurt him. 

Ryan squinted his eyes at her before Zach caught his attention again. He asked Ryan his plans for the day, to which Ryan meekly smiled at. He wasn’t going to mention the elephant in the room. “I’m going to meet up with Shane but I have to call my family back home.”

Zach nodded in understanding, “stuck here until further notice?”

“Yeah,” Ryan exhaled, “I have to tell them that I’m not going down for the month. I think my brother would understand, it's my mother I am worried about.”

The Roseberry twin recoiled when he said that, she didn't break her gaze until then, taking her eyes off him and gravely looking out the window. 

“Well, I’m not going to keep you here any longer than scheduled,” Zach reassured, Ryan glanced to the clock on the wall. He hadn’t noticed that an hour had passed. He felt something on the palm of his hand, “feel free to contact me anytime. There’s always time to talk about other things.”

_What about the ghost looking out your window_?

“Thank you,” Ryan smiled sincerely, he rose to his feet and assembled his things before heading out of the office. He didn't look if Mary followed behind and patiently took himself out of the third floor and back to the section he was working at. He didn't lie about anything in particular, he _really_ was going to call Jake and tell him about the sudden change of schedule.

It wasn’t just for the month.

(“You have to stay here for the rest of the year, if not longer,” Steven explained to him in the emptiness of the meeting room. Endless ziplock bags beside them with evidence marked with the date and a short description of what they were looking for. “This may take the rest of the year to finalize, before then, it’s unsafe for you to meet with your family. But I think you knew that.”

Ryan did understand. He wasn’t planning to head down to California any time soon, though his mind did wonder if he’ll be able to see his family for a day or two during Christmas. 

He accepted it, still, didn't stop the yearning in his chest. He missed them.)

Steven urged him to keep it between the team for now—they were antsy about who their suspect might be and they wanted to make sure Ryan was out of sight until they were arrested.

Thinking about it now, he felt like he was missing something.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it, don't worry about it.”

Stopping in his tracks, Ryan blinked in confusion. He was too focused on his own thoughts again, unconsciously standing before the occupied telephones hung on the wall of the first floor. Two men stood there, the phone pressed on their ear and talking to themselves. One of them louder than the other, and Ryan stared at him as the man in question scratched his eyebrow.

“I’ll get it hun. I’ll be home for lunch, I swear on it,” laughing, the man rubbed his forehead and looked to his side at Ryan. “Yeah, I gotta go, there’s someone waiting for the phone—yeah.”

Ryan knew who it was right off the bat, albeit never spoke to him before. TJ Marchbank looked at him with a grin turning back to the phone booth. He was tall, his jawline with a stubble and his hair swept to the side. He had Shane’s features, though, looking as if _he_ has slept before. 

Now that Ryan truly looked at him, TJ had similarities beyond Shane's facial structure. He wore clothing that could have mistaken Ryan for Shane if he truly wasn’t paying attention, his hair would have been the only telling characteristic that would individualize them (aside from Shane’s mustache that he refused to shave off). Still, it was no doubt this man was his partner for a handful of years. 

Shane didn't hide that part of his life either, mentioning TJ and talking about their experiences in the field. Some of the cases they’ve worked and solved together were public, for which Ryan read often before bed every night. They offered him comfort in the strangest ways, knowing that these two detectives would not stop until justice was served—until the one who had done such a crime was caught.

Ryan wondered what it was like in the beginning.

“Hey, Bergara right?” A sultry voice interrupted his thoughts and Ryan looked upwards, catching the friendly gaze of TJ, “Ryan Bergara, Shane’s new partner.”

“Y—yes, that would be me,” it was surreal to see him in person, Ryan admitted to himself as he shook the hand of the man he read about for years. “You’re nicer than Shane was when I first met him, I was so sure he would have fought me.”

TJ laughed, retracting his hand and shoving it in his pant pocket, “he wouldn’t stand a chance, say, heard that you had a breakthrough in the case. Congrats, maybe you’ll become a detective after all.”

Ryan couldn’t stop himself from grimacing, his nose automatically wrinkled as he thought about the perpetual hours staying up and looking at dead bodies to find anything that could trace it to their killer. (It wouldn’t be far off of what he would do as a _paranormal_ investigator, but _still!_ )

TJ’s smile widened, patting Ryan on the shoulder, “you’re doing a great job, how’s Shane? I heard he’s been considering coming back full-time, is it true? Has he recovered?”

Ryan nodded his head, “he’s taking his time. But, I sort of convinced him to return to work. It’s up to him on what he wants to do.”

“Figures. Shane loved to close himself off,” TJ sighed and glanced up to the ceiling, “as long as he has you, I’m sure he’ll recover. He’ll be up and at ‘em before the holidays.”

Ryan hummed, nodding his head as _yes, I agree_.

His mind however, told him otherwise. He lowered his gaze, looking past TJ’s torso and to Mary Roseberry, her own body merged into the red brick wall and disregarded Ryan. Ryan couldn’t help to think about how he had gotten to the point he was at—most importantly, how Shane got to _his_ breaking point.

Devon had mentioned that it wasn’t the first time Shane closed himself off to his friends and family, like falling off the side of the Earth and never spoke to anyone again. Was it TJ that pulled him out of his hell before? Could it have been something else?

What caused it?

_As long as he has you._

Who did Shane have then? Nobody?

Why him? Why was he so important to Shane?

Pushing down the grueling lump in his throat, coupled with some sort of sick arrogance knowing that Shane didn't hate his guts, he brought himself back to Shane’s ex-partner. It didn't seem right to ask TJ without Shane’s consent, so Ryan decided that his silence was better off. He smiled, offering TJ his gratitude before TJ dismissed himself with a soft pat of his shoulder.

He’ll ask later, for now, his brother was his priority. He glanced at the deceased Roseberry twin and frowned, picking up the phone and forced himself to be happy for him.

Jake answered on the second ring, his youthful voice echoed from the receiver and Ryan automatically smiled brightly. “ _Hello_?”

“Jake,” Ryan exhaled, almost out of breath of how relieved he was to hear his brother’s voice. “It’s me, Ryan. How are you?”

“ _Shit_!” A baffled shout erupted from the phone, Ryan winced but listened as his brother shuffled god knows what on the other side. “ _Ryan_!”

“Yes, that's me,” Ryan answered, he rose his eyebrow and looked at the clock above him. L.A was two hours behind, and he called ten minutes before noon. Though, his little brother's groggy voice instantly clarified that he had _just_ woken up. Deciding to be cheeky, Ryan chuckled, “were you sleeping? What time is it now? Nine? Don’t you have class?”

“ _No…_ ” His brother denied, although Ryan's ventures in his early twenties told him otherwise and took note of his brother’s jaded tone along with a _slight_ sore throat from drinking too much _orange juice_ the previous night. (Or, that is what he told his parents at the time.) “ _I’m good, I’m good, bro. What about you? How are you doing_?”

They talked for a while, speaking on miscellaneous crap and passing the fifteenth minute mark, then the twenty. At the thirty minute mark, Ryan grew quiet and prepared himself to tell his brother that he wouldn’t be coming home. It would be difficult as most of Jake’s comments involved _I can’t wait for you to see it_ or _can’t wait for you to come down for Christmas, I’ve been taking pictures to show you later!_

Ryan didn't think to interrupt him, rather, changing the subject to something else. Most of the conversation revolved around Jake as Ryan wasn’t interested in talking about himself. Jake is fairing well at his first semester in college, he’s ecstatic about attending, though moderately homesick and yearned for weekends at mom and dad's house.

Ryan missed it too.

He didn't have much of a choice when he realized that he let Jake go on again about his job at the nearby supermarket. Ryan listened as his heart tightened inside of his chest. It wasn't too long ago, when they had the house to themselves sometimes, with their parents at work, they sat and played video games for hours. Where he'd take his brother to the swimming pool, two neighborhoods away from theirs, snuck them in and indulged in junk food. He always cared for Jake, and not once did he want to stray away from protecting him. This would be the first holiday season without his family. He missed his brother, but he had to tell him that he couldn’t see him, for his safety.

He’s his little brother.

“Are you doing good?” Ryan asked, “you know you can tell mom or dad. Don’t worry about money, Jake, we can help you—”

“ _No, no, I’m good_! _I need to save up because god knows I need to get you a good birthday present. What do you want_? _Be humble and ask for something cheap man._ ” 

_I want to go home and see you, mom and dad. I want to see Curly._

_I want you to be happy and safe._

_That’s all I want._

“Nothing, Jake. I don’t want anything,” Ryan said over the phone instead, ignoring the robotic voiceover informing him that they’ve passed the forty minute mark. At that notion, he felt eyes piercing behind his back and he relaxed his tense posture, knowing that it was a familiar face. He had spent an adequate amount of time at the phone booth, and he had work left to finish. He knew that his team would try to get Shane to look for him, “Jake, I have something that I need you to relay to mom and dad when you see them tomorrow.”

Ryan’s eyes followed the figure of the man that had been occupied on the booth next to him, he went past him and out of frame. “ _Aren’t you going to call them_?”

“I won’t be able to today,” it could have also been translated as: _I don’t think I can hear mom’s sad voice right now_. “Uh, Jake—I—I won’t be home for Christmas.”

The other side of the phone was silent, so Ryan went on, “I don’t think I’ll make it home this year,” he laughed to stop his voice from cracking, “I just wanted you to know first.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jake replied meekly, “ _when will you come back home_? _Do you know_?”

“I don’t,” Ryan pressed his head against the phone booth, making sure he remembers to breathe, let alone not overwhelm himself. “But will you tell mom and dad that I will by the end of the year? I don’t want them to worry.”

“ _They’ll worry about you anyway, bro. Are you okay_? _You’re not in any danger right_?”

Ryan hesitated, was he?

It didn't seem like the threat was directly towards him as he didn't know who the suspect was. Ryan’s face was plastered on newspapers and had been on television, while the killer’s has not. But... he was called out by them, and whoever it was, _knew_ who he was. Quietly, his eyes traveled to the man who seemed to wait for him to finish his call. 

Shane stood by the brick wall, and like before, he swore on Ryan’s privacy from the beginning. It didn't seem like he was listening or could hear their conversation, leaning back on the wall behind him with his arms crossed. He turned his head when Ryan looked at him, offering a slight grin in his direction. 

“No, Jake. I’m fine, I can’t go into it as it is an ongoing investigation,” Ryan said, looking away, “you have to let me know if anyone comes up to you or—anyone you don’t know—”

“ _I’m in college, Ryan. Everyone is a stranger to me,_ ” Jake half-heartedly joked, “ _I’ll keep an eye out for you, don’t worry about me. We’ll see each other soon, I promise. I’ll give you your present even if it's Easter or summer break. I miss you a lot._ ”

Ryan didn't know he held his tears at bay until he felt dampness on his right cheek. He gulped, taking the phone away from his ear as the voiceover announced the hour mark. He sniffed and felt somebody by his shoulder, he looked up to Shane’s worried gaze, his eyebrows creased as he wiped away Ryan’s tears with his thumb. 

_It’s okay, you can do this,_ Shane mouthed, nearly coming out as a whisper, _but we have to get back to work, I’m sorry_.

Nodding his head, Ryan wiped his nose with his shoulder, “I miss you too. I’ll bring you your present too, focus on school okay? No fooling around. I have to go now, I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

“ _You have work to do_? _Is Shane there_? _Let me talk to him_.”

“Why would you want to waste your time like that,” Ryan teased nonchalantly, “Shane’s not here, I have to work because I _am_ at work.”

Shane, however, didn't seem to let this one go. He lifted an eyebrow and adjusted the blue headband on his head, dragging strands away from his eyes before he caught the phone from Ryan’s hand and held it… high where Ryan couldn’t reach.

“Yeah, Jake,” Shane blurted, “Shane’s not here, I’ll take the message for him.”

Shane smiled widely at him before pressing the phone to his ear. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d spoken to each other, Jake’s fondness towards Shane Madej grew over the last couple of months. To a point where Ryan was sent out to the office as they talked to each other.

(If Shane and Jake exchanged stories about Ryan while he was gone, Ryan didn't know but he’d tear Shane a new one if he ever spoke about it.)

Ryan watched his partner talk to his younger brother on the phone, a soft smile spreading across his face as he talked to him in genuine interest. Jake wasn’t loud enough to hear him but the minute Shane’s eyes sparked with delight and moved to Ryan, he knew that he discovered something about him.

“Oh really?” Shane's whole face lit up, mischief showing in its vibrant colors and emanating from him. “Okay, I’ll let him know. No, no, I’ll make sure he didn't forget his own _birthday_. How could he?”

Right then, Ryan’s grin disappeared.

His… birthday?

What fucking day was it? Was it November already?

“Alright, I’ll tell him. Have a wonderful day, Jake. Drink some water, you’re hungover,” Shane jabbered, twisting the telephone wire around his finger, “no, he’s not here—okay, I won’t tell him.”

_He knew it_! Chirpy, Ryan mentally noted to nag his brother for drinking too much and watched as Shane said his goodbyes, turned to Ryan and threw an arm around his shoulder. “So, your birthday, huh? How long were you going to keep it a secret for?”

“I forgot,” Ryan defended himself, because it was the truth. Days had passed rapidly during the second half of the year, hours combined into an amalgamation of obscurity. “I don’t even know what day it is today.”

“Your _birthday_ , you idiot. Your twenty-ninth birthday,” Shane shook him a little, pulling him along the crowded hallway and into the department lobby. “Who forgets _that_? Especially something so special.”

“It’s just a birthday,” Ryan muttered under his breath, though he had a hard time hiding his own smile. “Another year older, what else?”

“What else—what else…” Shane pulled him closer, using his height as his advantage and Ryan had no choice but to squeeze into his side, wedged to his midsection. “It’s your birthday! I’m surprised, but at the same time, you’re very forgetful and wouldn’t have told anyone even if you had no choice.”

“Eh,” Ryan shrugged, amused that he had a way into getting free pie from Shane. Before he could boss him around, they reached the hallway of their office when Shane stopped their tracks.

“No, but seriously,” Shane lowered his voice, not paying much attention to the employees passing by, “happy birthday, Ryan.”

“Thank you,” Ryan beamed, his heart skipping a beat when he finally could see Shane’s features. They didn't see each other today at all, much less for a couple of days before. Shane’s complexion wasn’t as pale and the bags under his eyes weren’t too heavy lifted as before. It seemed that he was eating too without Ryan there to remind him that coffee for breakfast, lunch and dinner wasn’t a sufficient diet.

His hair grew longer and passed his nape, though, Shane didn't think much of it and decided to _keep_ it longer than usual. As long as it wasn’t that horrid mustache he loved to have, then it was no big deal. Changing Shane’s mind about something he was adamant about was as successful as moving a skyscraper two blocks over without machinery.

“Did you eat?” Shane asked, his tone relaxed from a moment ago, “I bought you your favorite burrito if you want it, I knew you’d be upset so I thought you’d like to have something that you like after. Sorry, it’s not a slice of cake.”

Ryan appreciated his partner thinking about him when he had to announce to his younger brother that he won’t be seeing him for the holidays on Ryan's _birthday_ of all days. Now that he thought about it, Jake was probably bewildered as to why his brother didn't mention it. If only Jake remembered he was dealing with Ryan Bergara, his thoughts come and go as the days fly by.

“It’s fine, thank you, really, I appreciate it.”

Shane exhaled from his nose, almost relieved.

“I don’t want cake though. I’ve been craving pie.”

“Pie? That’s not tradition, Bergara. Sorry to inform you but it's the truth.”

“Frosting upsets my tummy, big guy. I just want pie,” Ryan snapped his fingers, “you and me, all types of pie in one day. How does that sound?”

Shane became slack-jawed, though his head was thrown back with laughter that Ryan didn't expect to hear. Much less seen for a while. When he stopped, Shane’s eyes were still half-opened, his smile wide as he shook with the remaining laughter. “Okay, okay, whatever you say. I have a better idea,” his smile grew, not forcefully or in Shane’s fashion to hide how he really felt.

It was _Shane’s_ smile.

“You come to my parent’s house for dinner tonight and we’ll celebrate your birthday.”

Speechless, Ryan gaped before the words finally made sense to him and rubbed the back of his nape in embarrassment. Meet his _parents_?

“Shane… I can’t intrude—”

“You won’t be, Because I’m _inviting_ you. I’m not leaving you alone for your _birthday_ and I’m spending the weekend at my parents’ and—” Shane quieted down, maintaining eye contact, “I want you to meet them. Mom makes scrumptious pie, the best in the midwest, I tell you what. She’ll be happy to make you one on tomorrow.”

“Of course you’d say that, she’s your mom,” Ryan chuckled, “mid-westerners know nothing but cold weather and pie.”

“Oh baby, a snow day and warm slices of pie? That’d hit the spot right there, you gotta appreciate your birthday a little more,” Shane disregarded his joke and took it upon himself to fictionally rub his stomach in soft circles, already picturing the pie he’d ask his mother to make.

On that note, _meeting his mom?!_

Was Shane insane? Has he lost his big head on his hiatus or was Ryan’s excuse to indulge in unhealthy amounts of sugar that satisfying for him?

Until a few minutes ago, Ryan didn't know it was his birthday, and now he’s being asked to spend the night at his partner’s parent’s house and promised pie? 

And he was actually _considering_ it?

What was it about Shane Madej to make Ryan weak in the knees? What was it about him that with even a booming laugh, Ryan was rendered motionless but smiling all the while? Was it about him to think of Ryan when he was upset? When he wasn’t?

Was it his long hair? The corners of his downcast eyes that crinkled as he smiled? His selfness persona and affection towards his friends and family?

What was it that made Ryan… want to be with him?

What was it?

No, no. He had to stay away from this. He had to push those feelings down.

He could live with spending his birthday alone, he’d buy himself a slice of pie, he’d eat it in the hotel room and look over homicide cases like he used to. Or watch a basketball game, wasn’t his team playing today?

But before he could even think about refusing, Ryan felt warmth radiate from his hands and turned to the direction of Shane. He had taken them in his larger ones, caressing the bronze skin with his fingers and pressed him closer to him. “I’m asking you to come with me. Save your thoughts for another day and come with me. Please.”

What was it that made Ryan fall head first for Shane Madej?

Fidgeting, Ryan looked at their joint hands and shut his eyes. Fuck it, what the hell.

“Okay,” he bobbed his head, “does your mother know what a boysenberry is?”

Again, Shane’s smile wasn’t forced, neither was it fake to appeal to a worrywart like Ryan. It was one hundred percent his own discretion to smile at the person that will turn his thoughts off for the night.

Just for the night.

…

Shane lived outside of Chicago, a pleasant town called Schaumburg, adjacent to where Aria’s shop would have been if she wanted to station herself near an annual medieval festival. In fact, Ryan wouldn't hear the end of it during their drive to Shane’s childhood home and doubted that he’d stop hearing it and instead prepared himself to hear it twice—if Shane’s mother was anything like her son.

He praised himself for doing so because she _was_.

An identical counterpart of her youngest son, Shane’s mother was a kindhearted, beautiful woman. She knew they were coming from Shane’s earlier call at the office but it didn't stop her from bouncing with joy to see her child; Shane didn't get a chance to knock before his mother yanked the door open to the house, gathering him in an embrace, letting his father pat him on the shoulder before firmly hugging him too.

Shane’s mother, a sweet woman who was taller than Ryan could imagine, ran to Ryan and took him into her arms effortlessly. Greeting him in the way that she knew how, “come here dear, don’t be shy! I heard so much, and I mean _so much_ about you. I’m almost sick of hearing of you before I met you. Come in… you must be hungry.”

While Ryan had to duck his head to meet her eyes, Shane's father and brother were another story entirely. “Tall family,” Shane snickered in Ryan’s ear as he walked past him, smiling at Ryan’s scoff.

Apparently, nothing stops them from eating. It was minutes after greeting his parents and older brother that Shane’s mother dragged Shane himself through the door of the kitchen. It took _another_ few minutes until Shane's back appeared in the doorway, his hands holding plates with food spilled on them. He looked gigantic and like an idiot, but Ryan gladly jogged to his side to eat what his mother had cooked for them.

"Here," Shane squinted his eyes as he smiled, "you're a growing boy, have some rib."

"Why are you feeding it to me—ah, ok," Ryan opened his mouth wide, and Shane, the trickster, hung the slice of rib over his face. Sauce fell over Ryan's nose and his nose crinkled as he covered it with his hand. " _Shane_."

"Okay, okay," Shane laughed as he held the slice of rib with a fork. Falling into another set of laughter, Shane tried to locate Ryan's mouth the best that he could. Ryan insulted him in return, his nose caught the aroma of the barbecue sauce Shane somehow covered the piece of rib in. 

The night went off without a hitch, eating delicious food and drinking themselves into a stupor until Shane’s family sat Ryan down in the living room. The thing about midwestern families is that they loved to play games drunkenly—or, better yet, games that Ryan was half-heartedly explained to by Shane’s older, tall brother.

At one in the morning, Shane’s father fell asleep on the recliner and his mother began to pack away their mess. With Ryan’s help, she finished and announced to her children that she’s calling it a night. Shane and his brothers waved their hands in acknowledgment, kissing their mother’s cheek as they passed by her towards the living room and back in front of the television with a nonsensical program playing.

“Come Ryan,” she called, motioned to the main corridor of their house. It wasn’t huge as he expected, though the yard itself could speak to itself and made up what the house lacked. Albeit small, there were pictures _everywhere_ , some of people he didn't know and others of younger Shane with his hair covered in gel. _Home_ is what Ryan would describe it and his third beer made his cheeks flush as he thought about his own.

“This is the spare room. Are you alright staying here?” Shane’s mother’s accent echoed through the spare room he was sent into and he unconsciously nodded his head. She busied herself by opening the wooden sliding doors, showing nothing but a few coat hangers and boxes. Beside them, sheets and blankets were tucked away until she carried them to the spare bed. 

Normal as the spare room was, Ryan was a bit too tipsy to admire how clean it was kept and instead felt his heart crumble before him when Shane’s mother plopped the colorless blanket over the bed. “The house will be cold the rest of the night. I’ll give you two spare blankets just—oh, sweetheart, you’re pale as a ghost. Are you okay?”

Ryan didn't feel sickly, but a lump in his throat told him that he was missing his mother. “I’ve had too much to drink and I miss my mom,” he truthfully admitted, “you're the closest to a mother I've had in months.”

Shane’s mother grew silent, pursing her lips and sitting down on the bed, patting her side for him to sit. “You that close your family, huh? Here, let's sober you up a bit. I doubt my boys will spare you after I’m off.”

She rubbed his shoulder, and his intoxicated frazzled brain tried to remind him to sit up. “You raised Shane to be so nice,” he grumbled, unaware of what words he’s spewing out and pouted, “it’s kind of annoying how nice he is.”

“He was born that way, he was selfless as a child and rarely got himself into trouble,” she muttered, her hand had stopped stroking his back and she fiddled with the spare blanket’s loose strand, “I’m happy he never changed but he has to learn to put himself first. After Garrett—” she paused, “after his death, Shane had nowhere to go and I think he realized right away.”

“He refused to come home because he was afraid he would be leaving you behind. I was upset but I understood,” she smoothed down the blanket before throwing her hands on it in playful bemusement, “the boy would call me in the dead of night to talk about you.”

“Me?” Ryan let himself fall back onto the bed, trained his eyes on the white tipped ceiling, “what could he possibly say about me?”

“Everything that you told him. He went on and on about _oils_ and _spells_ , and this and that. I was surprised because he never talked about anythin’ like that,” she proceeded, “there was one time he kept me on the phone for two hours talking about how he suspected you were a psychic of some sort. I truly didn't understand my boy, but I can tell he loves you in his own way.”

Ryan breathed, feeling the tips of his ears grow redder and he hid his face with his forearm. “I think I love him too.”

Was it the alcohol in his system talking or would he feel the same in the morning? Something in him told him that he would— _will_ feel the same about him. He didn't elaborate before Shane’s mother tapped his thigh to get him to sit up, “I’ll get Shane to fetch you some water and I’ll tell him to let you off the hook for the night. Happy birthday Ryan, I hope you confide in us to take care of you.”

Wanting to cry, Ryan offered her a teary smile and set her off to find the man that Ryan wanted to see. He took it upon himself to change into the spare clothes he was given, a shirt and sweats that were a size larger than his but he made it work for himself. His head throbbed, and he kept his eyes closed when he felt a hand on his bare arm and blinked to see Shane sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Hey drunky,” Shane ribbed, “I got you your water.”

Ryan groaned, sitting up and taking healthy sips of fresh water, “if I feel like I'm dying tomorrow, I'm taking you with me.”

Shane laughed, watching him intently, “in my own childhood house? How cruel.”

Rolling his eyes, Ryan looked at him properly. Shane changed from his casual clothes that he had on today to something similar to Ryan’s. Almost as if Ryan had raided his teenage closet and still was shorter to barely fit in them. At the very least he didn't have to restrict breathing room for his biceps. 

An idea popped in his head however, and he couldn’t stop his own smile from appearing, “you’re sleeping in your childhood room right? What? Is it covered in nerdy posters from university?”

Tilting his head, Shane gave him an apathetic look, “of course, little guy, I was young once too. Come on, I’ll show you.”

_Hell yeah_ , rushing out of the bed, Ryan stumbled to his feet with Shane’s help to steady him and moved over to the room at the end of the hall. Shane’s room was wider than the spare, with a bed at the corner near the window and a concerning amount of posters plastered on the wall. It came as a surprise that Shane’s room remained the same as it was when he was living there but Ryan paid zero mind to it since his room at his parent’s was taken over by Jake.

“Holy shit, you really are like me,” Ryan slurred in awe, taking in the movie posters and references that he caught. He would point eagerly to something he understood and Shane would smile and nod back to him. He didn't stop doing this until he reached Shane’s bookcase.

It was filled to the brim with trinkets and books, located by his desk and gaming systems. Shane had books that looked old for wear, their side covers nearly torn in half with words faded into the print. Hardcover books were expensive and Ryan had a few that he had rented from the public library in Arcadia. But Shane had _hundreds_.

“Are all these… from school?”

Shane hummed, moving away from his things on his made bed and hovered behind him. He looked at the bookcase, a foreign look on his face that almost seemed melancholic. Ryan subtly leant back, relied on Shane's chest to hold him up. Shane did, he held Ryan to his own body as he extended his arm over Ryan’s shoulder and reached for a book, unmarked. If he had lost said book, it would have been impossible to find another. 

“Some of it is, see,” Shane turned into a random page where Ryan could see an ambiguous sight. Formal words that described a crime scene, with a date and time, location and description. Devon’s reports consisted of two to three pages of summarized homicide cases and this book was just _one_ of them. “These are cases I’ve worked on.”

Astonished, Ryan’s gaze turned back to the endless number of them and… laughed. His giggles no longer could be contained within him and he placed a hand on one of the shelves and let himself laugh. He knew Shane was a infamous detective, but this—this was insane and he found it hilarious.

Shane chuckled, “what? Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan tried to keep himself quiet and failed, hurled himself on Shane’s bed, “I don’t know, you’re just so cool.”

“And that’s funny?”

“I don’t know!” He hid his face into Shane’s pillow, smelling nothing but detergent and freshly done laundry. He felt the side of the bed tip over and a body flop beside him. Shane’s bed couldn’t fit two people unless they were cramped, thus, Ryan was remotely crushed between Shane’s body and the wall and didn't argue as he tried to control his laughter.

“Ugh,” he tried to breathe, “why are you this cool? Did you like solving cases that much to continue solving them? Fuck, what was your first case like?”

Ryan’s face was half-hidden between Shane’s pillow and his warm shoulder, though, he acknowledged Shane’s unexpected silence and looked up to see him flipping through pages of a book. It was different in color but identical in nature, phrases that were arduous to decipher but Shane understood it all.

“Shane?”

Shane swallowed, his entire body taut almost as if he was ready to fall further into the crease of the bed and stay there for eternity. Ryan found it odd to see somebody become so attentive and out of focus all the same, Shane's eyes glued to the words of the page without comprehending the information he read. 

Ryan kept quiet, feeling warmer as time went on until: “this was my first case.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Ryan used his forearm to sit up at an angle and extended his hand almost to ask to read it. Shane gave it to him without question and went on, “it was a child.”

Stopping, Ryan looked from the book without reading a single letter and back to Shane. “That was your first?”

“Yeah,” Shane scratched his jaw, “not only did I throw up when I saw him, but I hated everything that happened after I closed it. I didn't want to continue.”

Slowly sitting upward, Ryan moved the book away from them, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to—but—is this the case that… you pushed everyone away once before, was it because of this?”

Shane puffed out his chest and pressed his lips in a thin line before finally turning his head to Ryan. He adjusted himself, turning to his side and throwing his arm over his head, “it was. I thought about it during that time and decided to keep going. I always chose to keep going but I hated every minute of it— _he was just six years old_ , I told myself. And whoever did it was still out there.”

“It was his mother who took his life. She kept us off her trail for months before we solved the case, went to trial and packed it all up. I was alright for a couple of days after her sentencing, but even with her in jail… it wouldn’t bring him back. I fucking—I couldn’t handle it and I isolated myself.”

A loose strand of Shane’s hair fell from his forehead to his eyes and Ryan had fixated his gaze on it. It distracted him but Shane didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore, “I think you know what happens when I do that.”

Fighting the urge, Ryan’s hand twitched and moved on its own. Shane’s hair… is really long. “Yeah,” he muttered, tucking back Shane’s hair behind his ear and fell back onto the bed, turned to face Shane, “I do.”

“I don’t want to go through it again,” Shane mumbled, his voice rattled and his eyes drooped as Ryan messed with his hair. “But if I ever do, I know I’ll have you around.”

Ryan didn't stop messing with his hair, digging in deeper as Shane closed his eyes to the touch. His head was warm, warmer than Ryan was before and he scooted closer to conserve their heat. His knee struck the book and he knocked it away, uninterested in reminding Shane of his past if he didn't want to speak of it. 

“I’ll be there for you,” Ryan promised without thinking about it, but, really, didn't Shane tell him to think some other time? “I’ll always be there for you.”

“Mhm,” Shane agreed, throwing his arm over Ryan’s chest and pressing his hand on the small of his back. “I know, you’re with me now. In the future,” Shane licked his lips, “when we have kids, I’ll make sure to tell him I met their father during a case. And I’ll tell them that their father ruined my life.”

Ryan giggled, beaming at Shane’s slip of his tongue when Shane opened his eyes and lowered his gaze to Ryan's upper lip. His laughter subsided but his smile remained as Shane’s face became close enough to bump noses with him. 

Was it a slip of his tongue after all?

“Ryan,” Shane keened, his breath in Ryan’s face, “we’re both pissed drunk and I really want to kiss you. If you feel the same, can I kiss you in the morning?”

Ryan’s hand remained on the back of Shane’s head, resting on his nape and fiddling with the strands of hair. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his lips on Shane’s cheek before pulling away and hiding himself under Shane’s chin.

“Yeah. Don’t let me forget or I’ll be mad at you,” Ryan felt Shane’s chest vibrate as he laughed, held Ryan closer to him and rested his head on Ryan’s, finally succumbing into his own exhaustion. Hopefully Shane’s mother doesn’t mind that he found his own warmth for the night.

As promised, Shane woke up before him and called him for breakfast. With his mind spiraled with emotions that he never thought to have, Ryan dressed and washed himself, and disregarded the headache that formed around his temple. Catching the appetizing aroma of breakfast before him, and stretched his limbs as he walked through the hallway of Shane’s childhood house.

Before he could reach the kitchen, Shane’s arms embraced him and he remembered what he was told the night before. Not moving an inch, Ryan took the initiative and pressed his lips to Shane’s, wrapping his arms around him and bending him down to his height. Their lips moved rhythmically, almost reluctant to separate as they ignored the noises of pots and pans in the kitchen, followed by the call of their names.

Ryan didn't want to let go, not even as he pulled away to _breathe_ , then darted in for more, his hand curled around Shane’s jaw.

In the hallway of Shane’s old house—with traces of him being happy—Ryan kissed him with hopes that he’ll always be.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finished her finals!!! This gal!!! \o/ I'm FREE! And I'm nearing the end of my university journey... So sad, so sad :'(. I didn't want to update during this stressful time as I know many of us are going through exams and if you are currently/done with them: YOU CAN DO THIS I BELIEVE IN YOU GOOD LUCK!!! And if you're done with them, GOOD JOB HERE'S AN UPDATE FOR YOUUUU.
> 
> Again, sorry for the delay, now that I am done with school, I will finally have time to post the last few chapters before the new semester begins which is sad bc I love this story too much :').
> 
> Next update will be on Christmas Day!  
> HOPE YOU GUYS ARE HAVING A WONDERFUL HOLIDAY SEASON AND GOOD LUCK ON FINALS! <3

**DECEMBER 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

He felt a piercing gaze on him. 

And all he wanted was to read his book in peace. He almost dumped it on the floor in frustration at the blatant distraction, but Shane simply crossed his legs and flipped to the next page. Shane's earplugs worked wonders on dull, mundane work days where he’s not _exactly_ thrilled to listen to Steven’s constructive criticism to his obvious excuse to procrastinate—you know, despite popular belief.

Yet, he felt Steven's eyes bore into him as if he's waiting to drop a bombshell.

Giving in, Shane sighed and decided it’d be better to pay attention to him rather than ignore. Steven’s little puppy-dog pout was nowhere in sight, but rather as poker-faced as he _could_ be with cerulean hair in the flickering light above him. Shane adjusted his hairband and placed his book on the table next to him: “yes, Mr. Lim?”

Knowing Shane’s ruse, Steven pointed to Shane’s ears and crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking him by sitting on the chair across from him. Smug, Shane took off his earplugs before giving his utmost attention to his coworker. 

Steven beamed, hands intertwining on his lap, “why the hell haven’t I gotten a report from you, yet? Where’s the work you promised me?”

“I didn't know I needed to hand in a report today.”

Because Steven's dear partner _also_ procrastinated changing the lightbulbs for over five months now, Steven's face glowed by the vivid lightbulbs wrapped around their Christmas tree. Gene Autry's rendition of _Here Comes Santa Claus_ echoed in their office softly, but loud enough to probably annoy Steven. Steven's expression didn't change, although his eyebrows rose, “I appreciate you and missed you when you were gone. I need that report Madej. You’re my favorite person. I need that report.”

Wondering why Steven was concealing his compliments towards Shane with what he _actually_ wanted from Shane bewildered him but he decided to be the bigger person (figuratively and _actually_ ) and smiled: “I missed you too buddy,” he reached for his earplugs, “we should go out for lunch later.”

“Put those back on your ears,” Steven pointed at him, right when Gene Autry sang ' _p_ _eace on earth will come to all'_ , “and I’ll slap them out of you, Madej. _Get to work_!”

“I am working,” Shane objected soberly, this time making sure his earplugs were out of Steven’s reach, “I’m trying to read into my boyfriend’s hysteria and empathic abilities. If you need the report now, why not write it yourself?”

Exhaling, Steven gave in and relaxed his demeanor, sensing that his argument wasn’t going to win against Shane. “I’ll get Bergara to do it, he’s been procrastinating too. Maybe you two _are_ a match made in heaven,” he finished as he rested his elbow on the table, placing his chin on the palm of his hand.

Shane hummed, flipped through another page of the book he acquired from Aria. Three weeks after D.N.A samples were sent off, Shane brought it upon himself to take it easy on a cold case as the Roseberry’s and gather the information they currently have to reconstruct a timeline; it was _mostly_ complete and by the end of the year he’ll have a finalized draft.

There were loopholes in his theory, from physical evidence—where LeBlanc repeatedly reviewed for months with nothing to return to—to the cryptic motive. There was also Ryan—who, here, was a key part of the case. 

Working with him had opened doors in Shane’s puny brain to use him to their advantage. Ryan had a gift that he didn't know about until recently when his nightmares kicked into full throttle. It subsided after his birthday, though, it was never a guarantee that he’ll stop waking up in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder.

Ryan hadn’t stopped hurting himself, he would reach for his shoulder unintentionally in the middle of the night, waking up with horrendous lesions on his skin. It drove Shane insane to see him in that state, giving himself no choice but to look into empathy. He’s read about extrasensory perception for months, practically naming himself an expert on their silly theories, though, could Shane call it laughable when it was happening before him?

_Nightmares._

_Sensing auras._

_Probably seeing dead people_.

His boyfriend was a man made out of _The_ _Sixth Sense_.

(If Joan Crawford manifested in the office right now, Shane would shrug it off because, golly, she’s an actress!)

Speaking of, Ryan took it upon himself to walk into the meeting room at that moment, (ironic as _Please Come Home For Christmas_ by the Eagles began to play,) slowly wandering inside with a smile on his face from joking around with their colleagues outside. Carrying a plastic bag with what Shane assumed to be as breakfast, he closed the book and stood on his feet, “thank god you’re here,” he said, “I’m starving.”

Ryan turned away from the door, waved his friends away and walked towards Shane, “really? That’s why you’re happy to see me?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Shane took the bag from Ryan’s hand, placed it on the table as he bent down and kissed him before digging into what Ryan bought them. Knowing him, he’d get himself his favorite tacos (or what was close to what his family had in L.A) and snuck a tear or two of happiness as he ate them.

(“I miss L.A, the food isn’t spicy enough here. I do like a good taco here and there,” Ryan told him, closing his eyes for a moment as they talked about their favorite kinds of food.

Shane smiled, “I know. You like all kinds of food.”

“I do like a good _wine and dine_ ,” Ryan had wagged his eyebrows at him, but his cowboy hat was what made Shane let out a booming laugh.)

Their relationship hardly changed since Ryan’s birthday. Although they played their part and acted as if nothing happened between them the next day. They agreed that their relationship should be between them, locking their shared secret and keeping it away from anybody who could take it away from them. 

(A hassle, is what Shane would call it as his mother threw him a couple of suspicious looks at the grocery store a day after they got together.)

They’ve kept it a secret from their families and friends as the first wave of holidays came and went but as soon as their jobs lurked over them, they had no choice but to stand in front of HR and reveal their involvement with each other.

Their workplace handled it well, Eugene Yang prompted to deem it a celebration, but other than that, nothing changed. Their PDA wasn’t passionate, whenever Ryan left to speak with Zach Kornfeld or went home for the day, they’d kiss or hug as a replacement to _see you later_. They were happy together, Shane would consider him as his best friend, and now he had his chance to take care of him and love him.

They haven’t spoken about their future, if they had one, (Shane hoped it was going great, because in his eyes, he couldn’t imagine a world without Ryan Bergara anymore,) but he knew it was bound to happen. 

He snuck a glance at Ryan, digging into his own breakfast as he listened to Steven reassign Shane’s workload on him to keep him busy. Keeping Ryan distracted was their objective for right now, the man himself couldn’t leave Chicago, much less anywhere but the department, the food court and his hotel room.

“If you want,” Steven's voice resounded in Shane's ears as he listened in, “Shane can take you down to our repository for more information. We have your Queen Mary footage stored there, a copy, obviously.”

Ryan wiped his hands on his napkin, chewing as his eyes rounded, “you _do_?”

“We needed your work for reference, we have several files under your name,” Steven explained, almost as if it had been reiterated information. Acting like a machine, Steven leant forward onto the table to Ryan's face, the light flickered above him, his blue hair in view and Ryan did not move, he chewed, “if you can grab me the box labeled here,” he slid a post-it note to Ryan, “that would be helpful because your husband over there refuses to work.”

Nodding, Ryan hid his smile with his hand as he kept eating but read the post-it note. “I procrastinated the report for today for like three hours yesterday,” he admitted without thinking about it, to which Steven gasped as if it almost offended him.

“Why do you need this information?” Ryan asked, skimming through the homicidal grocery list, “is there another case? Should I be concerned?”

“Nothing to worry your little head about,” Shane reassured, patting Ryan’s shoulder and holding his hand on his nape, “they’re copy-cat crimes that wouldn’t escalate to anything above stealing old dames’ purses and scamming tourists.”

“If they’re such small crimes,” Steven voiced, crossing his arms over his chest and wiggling his eyebrows, “why didn't _you_ work on it sooner?”

“Finish your breakfast, honey,” Shane squeezed Ryan's shoulder, stood up from his seat and shoved the last of his sandwich down his throat before crumbling the paper bag in his hands. “I’ll escort you to our repository, it’ll be useful for you to know where it is whenever we're blessed with DNA results.”

“God knows when that’ll be,” Steven groaned impatiently, not used to having to wait a handful of weeks for results. “Take your time, live there if you need to, by the time you’ll return in five years time, the results will return.”

“Jesus,” Ryan gave a nervous laugh, “does it really take that long?”

Throwing out their trash, carefully maneuvering over Steven who had his limbs spread out and head thrown back on his seat. “Who knows? Steven, we’ll be back. You know we hate to leave you alone in this feral state you’re in. Quick,” Shane takes Ryan’s hand, “we have to get to work or else he’ll eat us.”

“Whoa—whoa, what—!?” Steven’s protests faded into the background as they practically ran out of the meeting room. Familiar with Steven’s humor, Shane ignored him and led Ryan towards archive. 

He had to dig into his brain for a moment or two to remember where it was located, it had been a while since he’s been sent down there—maybe years as an intern under TJ. For the sake of his sanity, Devon volunteered to retrieve files for him whenever he was working which was rather uncommon for her to do. Shane kept all his case files beside him until it was solved, if he forgot anything, he’d be screwed into begging his coworkers to run down into Hell for him (not literally.)

The repository was on the opposite side of their department on the ground floor with restricted access. Ryan would need to use his privileged ‘boyfriend access’ to enter next time but he’s known to be trustworthy.

“Don’t call it that,” Ryan asserted in a perpetually tired voice, walking ahead of him through the hallways of Shane’s own underworld. His voice didn't sound irritated, instead, witty. But Ryan still had a distant expression rooted deep in his eyes. For a moment, Shane wondered what was on Ryan’s mind until they arrived in front of the basement.

This decade’s archive was an insignificant area of the entire ground level, though it was _packed;_ finalized investigations had their own label inside endless hallways of cabinets. Stacking unclaimed binders on top of each other to make room for walking, Shane felt the wall beside him for the light-switch, fingers crawling behind the bookcase until he found it. The repository was brought to life, shelves and bookcases stood before them, all with white boxes and marked sharpies with dates or names.

He expected Ryan to gape in awe and react in a way that Shane had as a juvenile in the world of crime.

But when Shane gave him a quick look from where he was, Ryan was motionless, looking directly ahead with rounded eyes. Now concerned, he turned his heel to Ryan and reached for him when Ryan seemed to snap out of it instantly, almost like it never happened.

“What the hell?" Ryan jolted upright, and gestured with his arms, " _these_ are cases you have on file right now?”

Baffled, Shane blinked and gaped, his outstretched hand left to his side and he looked in Ryan’s initial direction. Nothing. All he saw were binders and Ryan himself, gawking at them.

“Uh, yeah...” he started, “everything in this room is from the last decade. Closed cases are near the back, here,” he walked past Ryan’s shoulder, reading the sides of the bookcases thoroughly until he reached the letter _Q_ , “your Queen Mary case is here.”

Shane motioned at the filled bookcases before looking behind him, “and other cases with your name on them are around here too. I think there was one from the Winchester house? And another piece of evidence from _—Ryan_?”

“Huh?” Ryan lifted his head, his elusive eyes landed on Shane and it seemed that it clicked that Shane wasn’t beside him anymore, “oh, oh! My footage is there?”

“Are you well?” Shane asked, furrowing his eyebrows as Ryan strolled to his side and into the organized corridor. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Ryan offered him a handsome smile that didn't quite reach his eyes before he looked at the labeled shelves. All of them had their individual dates, Ryan being Ryan, automatically moved over to the specific date where he visited Queen Mary and took out the small box that carried his accredited evidence. “Holy shit, you really have it.”

Knowing that now's not the time to press Ryan about what he’s distracted over, Shane gave a quick glance at the vacant hallway and nibbled on his bottom lip when he heard Ryan sit on the floor. His boyfriend decided to reach into his own footage, unaware that they didn't have any means to watch it properly down here. Amusing him, Shane walked to his side and bent down on his feet, turning the box to his view.

“All this in here is a copy of what you found. We don’t even have the original toothpaste in a plastic bag,” Shane shivered, taking out a photograph of the toothpaste in question, “seeing that makes me quiver.”

“I can’t believe you have all of this… It brings back memories,” Ryan gathered the pile of polaroids from the box, eyes scanning each picture meticulously before flipping to the next.

Back during the summer, Shane sat in front of a projector and wondered what it was like to believe in something like the paranormal. When he had taken a glimpse of Ryan's video evidence delivered by Kelsey, he saw _nothing_ , just inhabited buildings or a historical 'haunted' ship stationed on the coast of Long Beach, California.

Now, he wondered if Ryan could see _something_ in those pictures, something invisible to the human eye; if he remembered his petrified state while he was there with his friends, if he was comforted by them or mocked for showing vulnerability. That made Shane frown, but he did not speak, he stared at the pictures from Ryan’s shoulder wordlessly.

He saw nothing like before, the grainy memories of Ryan’s old camera and people that Shane knew were unfamiliar journalists. Ryan was in one of the pictures labeled _May ‘82_ , looking strikingly similar to a picture Shane has seen before but in absence of his little brother.

“Is that Zack Evans?” Shane pointed his index finger at the man beside Ryan’s smiling self, “you knew him that long ago?”

Ryan’s head bobbed, black hair tickling Shane’s collarbone as he moved, “I met Zack at a convention, I went to the Queen Mary for a trip and I decided to return with him after—it’s stupid.”

Shane raised his eyebrow, “hey, hey,” he stopped Ryan from tossing the polaroids back into the box, puzzled over Ryan’s atypical stance towards his job. “Since when do you dismiss your job? What happened on the trip?”

Ryan let out a sharp breath, albeit silent and took it upon himself to scramble in the box instead of answering Shane’s question. Shane let him, keeping his eyes on him patiently when Ryan dug out a roll of film. It was labeled: _Queen Mary. Long Beach, CA - Ryan Bergara 1982-1984_ \- _Copy Version Available Only_ , with its condition almost brand new as if it wasn’t viewed by anybody else other than Shane and Kelsey back in August.

Shane knew what it was right away and dug through his brain to the gritty footage of Ryan in the bathroom being recorded as a tube of toothpaste seemingly fell from the counter on its own. (Back then, Shane disputed it as gravity in action even though Ryan in the video was startled to the point of cardiac arrest.)

“Did you watch it?” Ryan wondered in an amicable tone and forced a smile when Shane nodded his head, “it happened when I returned. But… the first time I went to the Queen Mary, I could have sworn I saw a disembodied figure. I thought I imagined it and forgot about it when that night I felt somebody mess with me as I slept, my friend was asleep when I woke up to see if it was him. It sounds crazy—”

“It doesn’t, Ryan,” Shane scowled, inclining his head in his boyfriend's direction and placed his hand in his, “not when it's you.”

“Yeah, well,” Ryan started, he ducked his head and held Shane's hand, “you _know_ me. You wouldn’t have believed me if I told you months ago.”

“That was months ago, my mind can change.”

A smile appeared on Ryan’s face, “just admit it, big guy. Ghosts are real and there’s one behind you right now, it's time you join my side.”

Knowing that Ryan was messing with him, Shane humored him to turn his head behind his shoulder mockingly, almost cartoonish as he let out a childish gasp when he saw that there was a butt loud of nothing. Ryan laughed, showing his pearly whites but his eyes were casted behind Shane’s head. His boyfriend was clairvoyant, it wouldn’t put it past him if there actually _was_ something behind him.

“Did you ever find out what happened? Was it really your friend?”

Ryan’s laughter subsided slowly, shaking his head, “it wasn’t him, he was drunk and didn't wake up until noon. I couldn’t sleep, I was scared shitless and thought that they’d mess with me all night if I did.”

Displeased, Shane wanted to travel back in time during that moment in time, knowing full well how Ryan’s fear would consume him effortlessly. He felt guilt for laughing before as this was Ryan’s work but also as somebody who didn't believe—Ryan wasn’t hurting anybody, he was doing what he loved and tried to help others.

Shane still was hesitant to believe. Though, he shrugged his shoulders, “I can’t explain it Ryan, I say it's a truce for now.”

Ryan’s mouth curved upwards, shoulders slumped as he accepted Shane’s answer, “there’s only so much your big cranium can dismiss, I’m afraid you’d spontaneously combust on me.”

“Never,” Shane claimed, “you’re stuck with me for life.”

Ryan’s cheeks twitched, closing his mouth as if he wanted to smile when Shane heard footsteps reaching the repository. On alert, he stood up steadily, leaving one arm beside him and held Ryan’s shoulder to keep him out of view. The ground level was the safest location in the department, Shane knew, if there had been an intruder, the archive would be a suitable hiding place. Yet, his eyebrows creased until he could see LeBlanc’s figure on the other side of the door.

“There you are,” she voiced, her hair ponytail swung as she jogged to their side. She wore her uniform, and though she had spent most of her time with Shane and his team at the department, she had her hands full at the Forensic Center in New York. Seeing her bewildered Shane, since she _was_ in New York, "first set of DNA samples arrived and Lim is losing his marbles.”

“ _What_?” Shane exclaimed, letting go of Ryan to gather up the copy of his case. “You’re fucking with me. When? What arrived?”

LeBlanc drew nearer and cocked her head in the direction of the door. “Priority arrived. Your washcloth is back, I don’t doubt you missed it, why not go say hello?”

_Oh fuck._

_Shit_.

“Got it, we’ll be behind you,” he strictly addressed and turned a full one-eighty when Ryan looked at him, equally thrilled and jittery to see those results firsthand. “Hun, we’ll continue this another time. It seems that we left Lim for too long.”

* * *

They were looking for a human male.

Being as it had been only a couple of months since Ryan started working with the investigation crew, he generally understood how D.N.A worked. During its early testing, samples of D.N.A could be traced from _anything_ and that included most, if not all, of the items sent to New York. The washcloth had been their main objective as the bucket left in the Roseberry kitchen and the bone at Amari’s were confirmed to link directly to an animal—a male lamb.

Devon read the results before them when Shane and Ryan returned from the repository, standing confidently as she confirmed to them that D.N.A found on _all_ evidence sent to them belonged to either the victim or to a man that wasn’t in their system—nevertheless, not the Roseberry’s father or Daniel Amari—but an unknown male between the age of eighteen to twenty-four. 

Amazed, the team sat down for a couple of minutes soaking in information before Shane stood up silently and left the room. Excusing himself, Ryan stepped out and left his colleagues, closing the meeting room door behind him. The bustle at the office never stopped, Ryan heard phones lines ring and the shouts of a busy workday. 

Shane sat back on the chairs out in the hall, rubbing his temple unconsciously and looked heavenward as to see if all the answers to the mystery could be found there. It was no surprise why Shane decided to leave, seeing as he’s been nose deep in his finalized report with a lead that still left them scratching their heads.

The last thing Ryan wanted to think about was the killer getting away—letting him win above all else, it irked Ryan to the core and enraged him when they were _so_ close to finally uncovering the truth.

Knowing that he couldn’t let Shane give up hope, Ryan sat on the empty chair beside him and reached for his knee. Shane didn't move or open his eyes, though his fingers enclosed with Ryan’s own and squeezed, “I’m fine,” he whispered, “I’m thinking, that’s all.”

“I know you are,” Ryan uttered back, “was it too much at once? Or is it because we’ve hit another dead end?”

Shane exhaled through his nose, his free hand rubbing in between his eyebrows and finally opened his eyes to meet Ryan’s, “neither. It's a step ahead of what we suspected. I’m thinking about what we should do to celebrate.”

“Cele— _what_?” Ryan blurted, his face went blank, “you—what?”

“It’s a wonderful occasion, Ryan,” Shane went on, his tone one of an resilient, worn-out man. “It counts for celebration. A bit grim to celebrate a killer’s gender though, but hey, what’s another day at the homicidal unit here in good ol’ Chicago?”

“Shane, what the hell is going on? Are you okay, big man?”

“I’m utter shit at bowling and I’m afraid of rollercoasters,” Shane rambled, shaking his head on the wall behind him, his blondish hair sticking to the white plaster and messing it up even more. Ryan went ahead and tucked those loose strands behind his Shane's ear, “I know you love bowling and theme parks, so I’ll make a sacrifice this one time for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Ryan tried to reassure, though Shane already rose from his seat without letting go of Ryan’s hand, “just talk to me, what’s wrong?”

Shane looked up again, shaking his arm and Ryan’s with it before he looked down at his boyfriend with glistened eyes, “Ryan. This is good, we finally have something to work on. Tomorrow's our day off, we should take a break. One day. Just one day. With you,” he replied, “I know you miss your family and your city, let me show you mine before it all goes to shit.”

Ryan’s mouth parted, though, he couldn’t think of words to say. Who could? He knew it was _never_ a guarantee that the case would be solved at all; Eugene Yang sat him down and told him so. At any moment in time, the case would be considered cold if it had to be, if the families wanted out and if Shane couldn’t take it anymore.

Somehow, Ryan didn't want to believe that it _was_ a possibility, but now—it was looming over them. It all happened _so_ fast and without warning that it was almost easy to forget that it’s only been a couple of months since it all began. How long has it been without his family? Without Curly or his way of caring for Ryan? How long since Ryan and Jake went to Knott’s with their family? Too long.

(In the back of Ryan’s mind, he promised himself to show Shane the things he loved as a child and more. But something in his heart told him otherwise.

What would they do when they have to part?)

“Okay,” Ryan agreed, smiling softly and taking Shane’s arm with his other hand as to convince him to sit back down. “Come here, we’ll talk about it. What’s this about a theme park?”

“It may not be _Disneyland_ ,” Shane told him, sitting back down on his seat, “hell, I don’t think I’ve been to a theme park since college, but there’s a state fair that comes by every year, I’d love to show you. We haven’t gone on a proper date.”

Ryan questioned himself if a date was suitable _right now_ where Lim is metaphorically throwing papers around and the rest of them are considering heading home early for the day. But the way Shane was acting, the man needed sleep desperately, with a distraction to follow after.

He wanted to wake up one day without thinking of the case. Almost as if he wasn’t in charge of finding a killer.

By six in the afternoon, Shane was sound asleep in Ryan’s hotel room.

After dragging him unceremoniously out of the department, Ryan threw Shane’s arm over his shoulder and pretended to have a conversation with him as Shane made it known to the public that he was overloaded with information. (As dramatic as Shane was, Ryan was left with little choice but to hijack one of the department’s Toyotas and throw sunglasses on Shane to account for his bloodshot eyes.

If Shane joked about how Ryan is now incriminated in a court of law for stealing a car, he’ll surely bring him down to the slammer himself.)

In the end, their date was postponed and Ryan sighed for the hundredth time, eyes peeked at the covered lump in his bed, steadily rising with every passing second. He folded Shane’s dress shirt before he turned back to Devon who had stationed herself in the desk area of his room, “what about Garrett’s house?”

He managed to keep his voice low, opening the dresser and shoving Shane’s clothes inside. Devon didn't answer right away, rather, she tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and rolled her shoulder, “we sent out Garrett’s outfit from the day he was murdered, although it’s hard to tell for now. It is confirmed that the killer had been in three out of the four crime scenes by DNA alone,” she went on, “I don’t doubt that he had committed the last.”

“Is that why Steven is looking into copy-cats? Could it potentially be another person who did it?” Ryan shut his mouth quickly when Shane shifted on the bed, thankfully for them, he was adjusting himself before falling back to slumber. 

“We’re not ruling it out,” Devon spoke secretively, too low for Ryan to hear until he sat by her side looking at their work. They’ve been sitting here for three hours now—three hours since Shane’s fallen asleep—and looked at their D.N.A results thoroughly. Devon marked any important points with a yellow highlighter, though, it seemed to them that it was never ending and had over half of the report marked up. “The perpetrator didn't acknowledge you or Shane by name before, Steven thinks it could have been a copy-cat, although we can’t say for sure.”

Ryan gritted his teeth in annoyance, if it were true… if they had a copy-cat out there that had taken Garrett’s life. Now he couldn’t blame Shane for passing out the second he heard the report in detail. “We have to match DNA found in all three scenes—we have to find something in Garrett’s house that would link us to the perpetrator.”

Devon’s eyes rounded, her head lifted to meet his eyes. She paled as he spoke and turned to Shane’s form on the bed, “Ryan, I don’t think it's a good idea for you to visit Garrett's house. Let Katie handle it, once we find something to send out, we’ll tell you.”

Ryan wanted to argue with her but deciding for Shane wasn’t fair on his part. The man was still in mourning, so was Ryan. Going to Garrett’s house after his murder wouldn’t serve them justice. Knowing she was right, sadness clouded his features as he lowered his eyes to the floor, hearing as Devon stood from her chair and organizing the report back into the manila folder. 

He felt like he was missing something.

For a brief moment, he wished that he knew more than he already had in mind. Looking for answers staring at the floor wouldn’t help, he lifted his chin to meet Mary Roseberry who took on fondness in Shane’s sleeping form. She was bent at the waist, staring at Ryan's partner with disinterest written on her transparent face. Ryan didn't get a word out of her since she appeared by his side, neither an emotion.

Her face was crossed off as pensive, except, she gave out a feeling of misery that Ryan took note of. Was she trying to tell him something?

“Shane told me—” he started, his brows drew together, “that Garrett must have known the killer.”

He heard Devon stop in her tracks, although she kept her silence as Ryan tried to remember, “if Garrett tried to stop the killer from entering his home, he must have—he must have barricaded his front door and tried to escape through the backdoor. I saw it myself, there was a handprint on the—on the sliding door, Garrett tried to leave… What was the killer doing there? Was he looking for something?”

Ryan narrowed his eyes, Mary finally turned her soulless gaze to him before she straightened her back and left Shane’s side. She didn't walk, never mind _float_ but her figure swayed as if she was air to Shane’s hung jacket. There?

Standing up, Ryan took Shane’s jacket in hand, shoving his hands in every pocket. He found nothing but stumbled upon Shane’s wallet. Now, Ryan wasn’t comfortable looking into Shane’s private things, but in all the months he was with him as his partner, Ryan knew that Shane kept the photo from the Amari house in his wallet as his last farewell to Garrett.

There’s no way…

Was the killer looking for a picture with _him_ in it?

Did he succeed? Did he fail?

Didn't Ryan see anything when he was scouting Garrett’s house?

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. He turned his heel, “it doesn’t make _any_ sense. He must have been looking for something that had his name or face.”

Devon raised her eyebrow, her expression crossed with apparent confusion and she looked as if Ryan was spewing out nonsense. She set down the folder back on the desk, “how do you know?”

“He's trying to hide his tracks, right? If he’s distracting us, he’s doing it well. There must be something in Garrett’s house that could incriminate him. If he hadn’t taken it before we got there. And he hasn't killed in two months, then he must have _found_ something.”

“What do you think he was looking for?”

Ryan threaded a hand through his black hair, finally succumbing to his lethargic bones after a long day. He didn't know. What _was_ he looking for?

“I don’t know,” he asserted, admitting defeat, “it’s Shane’s theory. I’m sure when he wakes up, he’ll tell us about it.”

Devon bobbed her head, “alright. Take it easy in the meantime. Tomorrow’s off day, maybe you and him should do something together.”

Gathering all the evidence into her bag, she left a copy to them on the desk before shoving the original back into the satchel. She was the safest bet with handling reports as her partner would drive her back and forth to her house and the office whenever she had them in her possession. Walking closer to the door, Ryan walked her out and offered his goodbyes before he’s left alone with a ghost and his fatigued boyfriend.

Leaving him to deal with this, he tried to think about something else before he gave in and decided that perhaps sleep wouldn’t come tonight. He sat on the edge of the bed facing Shane, the sheets were up to his chin and buried him in warmth. His hair crept out, strewn on the cotton pillow. Ryan stopped himself from sighing _again_ and tucked away Shane’s hair from his eyes, sleeping fondly as if Ryan wasn’t having a mental break.

His shoulder ached, unconsciously tensing, he pressed his hand to soothe it and kneaded it with the palm of his hand. Maybe Shane is right, they need a break. 

Worried over his boyfriend, Ryan silently stood, reaching over his suitcase to look for the vial of lavender fragrance he was given to help him sleep. He isn’t sure what Shane had done with the Limpia pouch (knowing that Shane didn't throw it away made Ryan happy—and saved him from Curly’s wrath—even if he doesn’t take it everywhere he goes) and set down the vial next to Shane’s bedside table. 

He didn't move a muscle and Ryan was struck with the sweet aroma in the air as he went off to get ready for bed. 

…

Shane Madej wasn’t a tourist by any means.

Neither was Ryan, not by a long-shot. Still, he knew that he had an advantage with tourist locations in sunny Los Angeles than he would in Chicago. So when Shane woke him up at eight in the morning with the promise of a full day of surprises, Ryan doubted him for a _moment_ before considering that maybe he’ll live up to Bergara’s touristic expectations.

And boy, was he truly living up to them.

His boyfriend was a 6’4 nightmare on two feet, clumsy with zero hand-eye coordination. It didn't stop him from making their first stop after breakfast _bowling_.

“I’m not very good at it,” Shane warned ahead of time when they walked side-by-side along a plaza in the heart of Chicago’s tourism. “I thought to give you the win for once.”

“Haha, that’s funny,” Ryan teased, bumping his shoulder with Shane’s before taking his hand. Chicago wasn’t so bad, it didn't compare with Los Angeles’ nice weather, though when you had a heat source, it wasn’t so bad. He’s been hit by snow weeks ago back at Aria’s, but today had an inch of snow congregated on the pavement where he had no choice but to step on with his best boots, “it wouldn’t be the first.”

“W—what!?” Shane exclaimed blithely, making Ryan laugh out loud, “you beat me at something? _When_!”

Leaning closer to Shane when a particular breeze hit his face, he was about to list all his achievements when he looked to his left. He thought he had imagined it, but the vivid colors told him otherwise. They had been walking for a while and without noticing, they’ve been walking beside _murals_.

He lived by murals in Arcadia. He was used to seeing them whenever he walked to the bus stop or walking his dogs on a residential street. Their vibrant colors pop out, some had been graffitied by the neighborhood kids and others left alone. It didn't come close to what he’s seen in L.A but his eyes filled with tears as soon as he saw them.

Pausing instantly, Shane gave him a concerned look before Ryan shook his head. “Did you make _me_ drive _forty_ minutes for this?”

Shane gaped, almost hesitant to answer, “I… I did. I’ve been to Los Angeles once and I saw many, _many_ murals. And Hollywood. I thought to take you around here to remind you of your city—to make you feel less lonely… sorry if I crossed the line—we can walk—”

“No, no,” Ryan denied, laughing through his homesickness to stop himself from bawling. “This is the best thing I’ve seen today. Thank you.”

Calmly, Shane gave him a half smile and reached for Ryan’s nape, “this is the best thing you’ve seen today? What about this mug of mine? You mean to tell me this,” Shane gestured to his face, “isn’t the best thing you’ve seen today?”

Laughing, Ryan turned to him with a playful scowl and took his hand away from his nape, “you’re pushing it, big boy.”

He didn't let go of Shane’s hand. Ryan admired the murals they walked through together as they talked about _whatever_. They’ve talked deep in the night before but as they reached a point of their relationship to wander deeper in their hearts, Ryan took the opportunity to listen about Shane’s escapees in college or his childhood stories.

Upon realizing their commonality with popcorn obsession, Ryan couldn’t stop himself from smiling, passing by murals and holding his boyfriend’s hand. For a moment in time, Ryan pretended he was in L.A with Shane.

The bowling arena Shane took him to was rustic, a bit weird from what Ryan would venture in with his group of friends back home. Vacant too, but they didn't complain. Their eyes stayed on each other the entire game—Ryan mocking Shane’s excuses and throwing them out the window as Shane would catch himself before hurling his body onto the lanes—and by the end of it, both indulging in drinks, Ryan thought that the game he had played was the worst because of Shane.

(“Now _you’re_ making up excuses,” Shane joked, taking a sip from his glass, the bright crimson drink reaching his lips.

“I still beat you,” Ryan argued, “you have to ride _a_ rollercoaster with me.”)

As promised, Shane didn't take him to Knott’s or Disneyland, but to a state fair. By comparison, it was small enough to understand the layout right away but that didn't stop Ryan from grinning ear-to-ear entering the park. He loved themes, he loved immersion, he loved anything that would distract Shane from reality.

They remained in the park for the rest of the evening, riding rides that they could tolerate (and others Shane couldn’t) and ate until their bellies were stuffed. And who knew Shane was a god-sent with those state fair games? Ryan didn't, but the stuffed cat that Shane won (and kept for himself) did.

By their fifth drink and Ryan’s intoxicated rambling, they sat down by a water fountain near the ferris wheel. It wasn’t the best idea as Ryan was hanging off Shane and almost fell into the water, knowing that he couldn’t trust himself, he dragged Shane down to the floor and leant his back on the edge of the fountain.

There were looks in their direction but as people with kids began to leave, adults crowded around to see the late firework show above them. Ryan was drunk, a bit giggly and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend, dropping his head on his shoulder as he tried to focus on the colors above him. 

“Ryan?” He heard Shane’s voice above the booming crack of the fireworks, “you good?”

Knowing that he was both amused and concerned over Ryan’s misfortune with alcohol, Ryan nodded his head, rubbing his temple on Shane’s jacket and exhaled, “I am. I’m very okay.”

Shane’s arm moved upwards, mindful to not disturb Ryan and placed his warm hand on the back of Ryan's head, “we should head out soon,” he uttered, the echo of his voice only heard by Ryan, “we can stay at the hotel next door. I’ll call Kelsey to pick us up in the morning.”

“Gonna kill us,” Ryan slurred, then giggled, “she’s gonna throttle you for gettin’ me plastered before work.” 

Shane shrugged, his hand caressing Ryan’s temples to lessen the vertigo he felt. They sat in silence, apart from the excited yells of the crowd around them and the thunderous fireworks. He enjoyed sitting around with him, just the both of them, imagined as if the world around them wasn’t relying on them to keep them safe. As hard as it was, Ryan looked onto Chicago bystanders, unaware if they were tourists or not and felt ashamed to be a part of their scene right now considering the hysteria.

But. Ryan turned his gaze to Shane’s face, no longer cold or emotionless, Shane had a smile plastered on his attractive face, downcast eyes relaxed and his long hair flowing with the wind.

For right now, he wanted to desperately pretend. 

Ryan inched closer, now hiding his face on Shane’s collarbone and threw his arm over Shane’s chest. Ryan, on reflex, moved his hand away promptly when he felt a bump on Shane’s breast pocket. Unsure of what startled him, he looked down and tapped on Shane’s pocket, “‘hat’s that?”

“Hm?” Shane lowered his head, his stubble tickling Ryan’s forehead and he opened his pocket with one hand. Taking out the item that Ryan’s bones almost jumped out of his body for and showed him. With Ryan’s spotty sight, he saw Shane holding a cotton pouch, smaller than his hand. In his drunken state, he knew what it was.

All of those mornings with Curly knew that he had to have room anywhere on him for protection. No matter what he did or where he’d go, Curly gave it to him to keep him safe and to stop worrying about Ryan all day when he was reaching out to the afterlife.

Limpia was known around L.A, to aunts and grandmothers who had their own remedies of keeping their children and grandchildren safe. Never did he think that Shane would follow his advice until he repeatedly kept it around to show Ryan. He never opened it or messed with it, trusting Ryan wholeheartedly. 

He knew that; he was just shocked that Shane had without Ryan telling him about it.

“You have it with you?”

“You gave it to me,” Shane told him, as if it was enough for him to hold onto a bag of potent aromatic herbs around. “You have a bunch of interesting things. Don’t think I didn't see you leave a vial of lavender on the bedside table last night.”

“Lavender helps with sleepy-time,” Ryan slurred, “I spill oil on me all the time. Why do you have it with you?”

“You said it will keep me safe. You have yours, I have mine. That way,” leaning close to Ryan, he pressed his forehead on his and closed his eyes, “we’re safe together. Demon-proof, if you will.”

“Nobody… demon-proof idiot,” Ryan hiccuped, separating them for a second before Shane smiled, turning into a set of laughter as he rubbed Ryan’s cheek with his thumb, “it keeps you safe. Don’t open it though.”

“Why?” Shane, still grinning like he was amused that Ryan was seconds away from passing out, “did you?”

“No…” Ryan whined, hiding his face in Shane’s neck again, but threw his arm over Shane’s shoulders, “at the airport, Curly gave me herbs and I touched my eyes… it hurt… I was crying a lot when Steven picked me up… don’t do it...”

“Alright, little guy,” Shane laughed, standing up and throwing Ryan’s arm around his shoulder, “let’s go, baby. You’ll tell me all about that won’t you?”

“It hurt…” Ryan grumbled, following Shane’s lead as best as he could before he could hit the snooze on their date, “it was a bitch to wash off. Had to tell Steven I missed my mom.”

They made it halfway to the exit when Ryan could finally walk by himself without Shane’s help, though he still held onto his arm as they made their way to their hotel for the night. He remembered the misunderstanding, it was something he had vowed to never do and hopefully when he goes back home, he’ll ask Curly to introduce Shane to his remedies. What a thought…

Shane goes home with him after spending a day together at Knott’s, Curly welcoming them with open arms and Shane’s skeptic-confused look on his face on learning about Mexican myths. 

That made him happy… really happy. He truly couldn’t imagine a day in his life without seeing Shane once.

Sobering up a bit more than he was before, Ryan smiled to himself as they walked beside each other. He grabbed the attention of the man holding him steady, “what’s up?”

“Nothin’, I was just thinking… I think today was the best day I’ve had since I got here.”

“Really?” Shane sounded almost astonished of himself, being that he had planned the entire day. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time, Ryan. It’s because I got to spend it with you.”

“Huh,” Ryan giggled, “gotta keep me around then.”

He heard Shane laugh as he pressed on Ryan’s arm but didn't comment. Their future was uncertain, as they’re nearing the possible end of their time together, what could possibly happen to them when they separate?

“ _Shane._..” Ryan babbled as they reached their hotel room, he watched as Shane took the keys from his hand and scrambled to open the door. Their hotel was open, almost vacant by the looks of it with its sign illuminating and drawing in drunk adults from the state fair across the way, “will you miss me when I go back home?”

Frozen, Shane had his back facing Ryan and although he had lowered his eyes to focus on his shoes (which to him, was more fascinating than to see Shane’s frown), he felt him tense. The jingle of the hotel room keys stopped momentarily when Shane turned around and wrapped his arms around Ryan. 

He was warm, stunk of alcohol and his cologne, the longer he had his limbs around Ryan, the sadder he got. Ryan panicked, moving his hands up to Shane’s back when he realized that he must have struck a nerve. Did Shane think he was leaving _now_? That he was ending all possible communication with him?

_Maybe he would forget what I look like, or my laugh._

_Maybe he'll forget what I like to drink or eat._

Before he could explain, Shane squeezed him tighter to him, “Yes—yeah, I’ll miss you every day. I—I keep your silly pouch around because it reminds me _of_ you. Even when we’re apart,” he stopped, “I’ll—I don't think I could forget you.”

_And maybe he'll think that I've forgotten him too._

_But I'll see him again, god knows when, and he'll remain beautiful to me._

Gaping, Ryan couldn’t find the words to say, he trailed his eyes behind Shane's shoulder, where Mary Roseberry stood in the freezing cold, not a sign of it bothering her. And she did not move, nor did she flinch under his gaze. Ryan wanted to yell at her to leave him alone, instead, he hid his face in Shane’s chest and took a deep breath. He’ll pretend until tomorrow. He’ll pretend that Shane is in L.A with him, they’re entering his apartment and—then he’ll wake up and face the truth.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Happy holidays and a wonderful new year! :) I hope everyone is healthy and safe during this time, as well as your family! <3 
> 
> This is the last update of this year, but a big one!! I wanted to take these last days off to spend time with my family (safely, as we all quarantined together since March) and I'll return in January with the last three chapters ready to go!
> 
> Thank you all for a wonderful (second half) year, this story means so much to me and all your comments and kudos are very well appreciated. (And wow 1700+ hits!) Your comments make me so happy! Thank you all, happy new year 2021! See you then :-)
> 
> **WARNING: This chapter mentions self-harm, and threats involving suicide. Very minor to the story, but just to be cautious!**

**DECEMBER 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

Weeks after she appeared, Mary Roseberry's apparition began to evidently dim.

When Ryan woke up—tucked into the heap of what is Shane—he found himself staring into the eyes of the Roseberry twin peeking over Shane’s shoulder. He muffled his shocked scream and hid himself deeper in Shane’s still form, his arms tightened around Ryan reflexively. Ryan knew something was up with her but he was an expert on disregarding ambivalent emotions from a metaphysical being.

Or whatever she was.

She didn't stop there. She became enthralled with Shane’s work at the office since they arrived this morning. The thing was… she didn't look at Ryan anymore, her gaze held on the paperwork on the table, or at Shane, and occasionally at the subtle touches they exchanged with each other. Ryan wasn’t sure if she could read or _see_ as a disembodied ghost (he _tried_ to ask but she ignored him—could she hear?) but her emotional stature would falter a bit more whenever her sister was mentioned.

Ryan kept an eye on her all morning, trying to stay out of Shane’s way as he worked. She followed Shane's movements as if she was air, passing by him as he didn't blink an eye. That was skeptical Shane for you. His boyfriend’s forehead creased as he worked, strands of his long hair fell over his eyes as he hastily wrote in his notepad and the whiteboard. 

If Ryan didn't know him, he’d mistake him for a professor. He wanted to joke about it, but Shane had been transfixed in his work that he bit back his comment. Instead, Ryan sat on the couch, reading about copy-cat cases. In the recent weeks since their 'first' date, larceny and neighborhood vandalism have risen in Chicago and various states around Illinois. While most of them were, as Devon explained to him—petty theft and a far-cry for attention—they didn't think to dismiss them lest they’d escalate. 

The rest of the team was out in the field because of this, locking both Shane and Ryan alone in the office to answer calls or work on the Roseberry case. Shane’s report was almost finished, having zero time to procrastinate as Kelsey would skin him alive if he delayed to submit his final draft.

Ryan had gotten to the fourth page of the report—a teenager who vandalized her ex-boyfriend's car—when he heard Shane call out his name.

He rose from his seat, set down the report on the stack he had on the couch and walked to Shane’s side, “what’s up? Found something?”

“More like _need_. Could you go down to the repository for me?” He asked, threading his fingers through his hair before holding it into a loose pony-tail to make room for the lanyard he had over his neck. His identification badge was clicked on with access to the room even Ryan couldn’t obtain permission to enter. “I would ask our archivist, but it's her off day. Could you grab Parker’s files? I think I left them out.”

Grabbing the lanyard, Ryan said: “got it, anything else?”

“No—no, take your time. I think I’m taking a break soon. Hey,” Shane took hold of Ryan’s hand before he left the room, he bent his neck and looked at Ryan in the eyes, “you remember where it is right?”

“I do.”

“Alright, thanks,” reluctant to let go, Shane leant down to press a kiss on Ryan’s forehead and let him to his own. Ryan knew where the archive was, although he had to dig through his memory to remember the exact location. He passed by a couple of employees before he reached the elevator that would take him to the ground-floor. 

The guard was nice, knowing him by first-name basis and let him in once he spotted Shane’s badge on him. It was almost too easy to infiltrate their repository with Shane’s name, but knowing them, they’d arrest trespassers on the spot if they tried to. Walking through the corridor, he found the room where Shane brought him in before.

Looking as full as before, Ryan scanned for the light-switch behind a bookcase. Grimacing at the abrupt fluorescent light, he walked passed Mary’s figure, steps away from where she had been on his first visit and began to walk to find Parker’s case files.

He mouthed out the names of cases in the letter _P_ area, and finally found the box Shane wanted. A bit higher than anticipated, he threw on Shane’s lanyard over his neck and stepped on the shelf to reach the box. He grabbed the sides of it and held it above his head, alarmingly heavier than he thought. 

Groaning, he held the box over his head and jumped onto the ground, setting down the box in front of him with a thud. The contents of the box rattled, and a few manila folders spewed onto his shoes. Ryan bent down, extending his hand to reach for it when the date caught his attention.

_December 18, 1976_.

His brows knitted, uncertainty gathering in the pit of his stomach, could it be that he grabbed the wrong box? Squatting down, Ryan began to dig through the case files to find any indication that it was Parker’s when a newspaper clipping caught his eye.

Ryan froze, holding his hands above the newspaper clipping before reaching for it to properly see the printed words. He grounded his jaw, his face flushed crimson, and looked back to the box he had gotten. He let out a sharp breath, resentment grew within him but he forced himself to unclench his grasp on the clipping as he threw it away, and reached for the box.

He couldn’t believe what he read—a muscle in his jaw twitched as his eyes welled up in tears.

* * *

**THE SUN**

Wednesday, February 16, 1977 17p Today's TV: Page 16 and 17

**_SHANE MADEJ, NEW DETECTIVE OR AMATEUR?_ **

_Sources claim that Madej has isolated himself after his first recent case_ —

_Was he the right detective in the case? He took too long to solve it, pointed fingers, not to mention, trespassed private property—_

_If you’re asking me, he should resign_ —

  
  


**CHICAGO DAILY TRIBUNE MONDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1976**

**_MOTHER OF VICTIM SPEAKS:_** _He's failed my son.  
_

_Mother of child breaks her silence two days after crime committed. Lead detective, Shane Madej suspects foul play within the family—_

_Newcomer Shane Madej interrogates mother—_

**THE SUN**

Thursday, February 10, 1977 15p Today's TV: Page 15

_Mother found guilty. No word from Shane Madej, lead investigator on the case. Press are gathering around his apartment to speak to him. Working day and night to get him to talk to_ —

_Protests to fire Shane Madej were held outside the Chicago Police Department after his bold accusations claiming the victim’s mother as the lead suspect._

" _It wouldn’t surprise me if he offed himself, if he did, you wouldn't catch me feeling bad for the_ —"

* * *

Ryan threw the articles across the room.

What the _fuck_ was wrong with these people? He was visibly trembling as he read on and on, almost endless and probably _was_ as he flung them away to refrain from ripping them to shreds. He was pissed off— _furious_ —to the point of destroying his surroundings. How—how could they keep this? 

Did Shane allow it? Did he _know_?

What was Ryan’s fucking luck to find it on accident too? Irritated at himself, Ryan shook his hands and covered his mouth, screaming into them as loud as he could and although it was muted, it was awfully intense to the point that Ryan felt lightheaded when he stopped, cowering into his body. A bit better, but still outraged.

He couldn’t tell Shane. Not today. There had to be a moment in time where they’d talk about what Ryan witnessed here but he had to play it off like he _didn't_. He won’t coerce Shane to talk about it when he’s far from ready because shit like this fucks with you. Ryan was used to it but—god _, he could care less_ about what people spoke and wrote about him back in L.A. 

His work would always be the laughing stock to people who didn't believe in the paranormal. That was fine. Social media loosely calling him a freak, or insensitive words _weren’t_. Rarely, it would hinder him when he let it—Shane went through this many, _many_ times before that even Ryan could admit to have read up on the hearsay the press made up about Shane.

Were their assumptions about Shane true?

Knowing him now, _dating_ him—none of it was.

Shane was kind-hearted, he loved his job, loved and took care of Ryan, of his friends, of his family. He, to Ryan, was someone readily available to speak to whenever, someone to hold onto and cry to in his moments of weakness. Shane would never betray him or his belief. 

Shane listened.

Pushing all his emotions down, Ryan picked up the articles he had thrown and shoved them back into the box. He still had no idea what occurred during the case itself or what it was like—judging by the media outcry, they must have set their target on one person, Shane.

He was fighting back tears when he set everything back to how it was before and took the actual Parker case files. By the time he returned to the meeting room, his flushed face subsided, though his ears still felt a bit hotter as if steam was about to blow out of them. 

Walking in, he found his boyfriend working as if nothing really changed. He turned his head briefly as Ryan walked in, he gave him a smile and returned to his work. It only took a _second_ before Shane lifted his chin, his smile slipped and his eyes darted to him, “what happened, Ryan?”

Fuck. Was he that obvious?

Frozen in place, Ryan didn't know what to do but tried to come up with a lie on the spot. He frowned, ready to accept defeat, “I got lost.”

Shane blinked, his eyes flashed with dubiety as he gawked. Ryan knew his boyfriend was trying to see if he was telling the truth, after all, he was a private investigator. Nevertheless, Shane seemed to understand that Ryan didn't want to talk about it and offered a chuckle, rested his hands on the table and leant forward, “I knew you would. Little guys like you would get stuck in the smallest of places.”

Ryan snorted, lifting the vibe of their conversation before giving his boyfriend the case files he asked for. Passing by him however, he felt Shane’s eyes on him as he returned to his spot on the couch. It took most (if not all) of his will power to stop himself from screaming _why did they do that to you?_ and express his concern through numerous questions, though one last glance at Shane pulled him back.

Shane's head was ducked, his concentration on a manila folder from Parker’s homicide case. He did not look at Ryan, and his hair had concealed his expression. There was a pencil on his other ear, tucked by his blondish hair and strands falling into his eyes. The longer Ryan looked—his heart clenched more and more, as if a deity was squeezing his organ in their hands—and he sighed.

His boyfriend’s hair was long.

He closed Devon’s reports again, meticulously tossed them to the side of the couch before digging through his backpack. They weren’t living together (something that they hadn’t talked about either) but he had Shane’s spare clothes in there somewhere and his bandana collection. Finally reaching for the closest one, Ryan silently walked to Shane’s side.

Because Shane was fixated on something else and bent forward, Ryan had access to his enormous head. (A win for him as he was normal, average height after all.) He leant on the table, placed his hand on Shane’s forearm and up to his bicep, a bit colder than usual, Ryan found himself closer to Shane and reached for his nape.

Shane didn't react, instead, he tilted his messy hair to Ryan’s side, letting him fix what birds nest he decided to keep this time. Running his hand through Shane’s hair, Ryan tied a bandana on him and hoped that his boyfriend would take the hint. 

Maybe he was too close, _maybe_ , but as Ryan had done his part of tucking away Shane’s hair from his forehead, he felt a hand on his back. 

“What’s this?” Ryan heard a whisper against his ear, Shane's mustache tickled his jawline, and he cringed away from it because it was horrendous to him, “are you distracting me on purpose or are you bored out of your mind?”

“Neither,” Ryan didn't fall for Shane’s game, knowing full well that his boyfriend was grinning from ear to ear and rolled his eyes, “can you even see with your hair all over your eyes?”

“I see you,” Shane flirted, breath ticking Ryan’s nape, allowing him to grimace and shrivel up again. “You’re sitting on the table.”

Was he?

He _was_. How did that happen?

“You’re freakishly tall,” Ryan argued, hopping off the table but remained pressed to Shane’s side. “Had to reach for your disaster one way or another.”

“Hey now,” Shane laughed breathlessly, his voice still soft and lowered as if Ryan was the sole person to hear him, “be nice to me, I have a heart of gold.”

_Fuck_. Ryan nibbled on his lip, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead on Shane’s bicep. Almost instantly, Shane reached for his hands, tucking them away with his own and looking straight into Ryan’s eyes, concern overtook his face.

“Ryan, what's wrong? What's bothering you?”

Should he tell him? _How_ should he tell him?

Would it be wrong to keep it from him? But—Ryan’s eyes trailed away to the table, making it seem as if he was eager to pay attention on the case instead of resuming this conversation. He couldn’t… he couldn’t do it, with all the work they had to do? Ryan could postpone it for the time being, and rather than answering Shane's question, Ryan hid his face in his chest, near his collarbone.

Shane’s arms wrapped around him without question, making room for him to leave anytime. 

Maybe Shane was right, he wanted attention. Anytime they were alone together, it was effortless to ask for affection since it was something that they do unconsciously. By the time they started, it was a bitch and a half to stop. 

“Shane,” he mumbled into his clothes, looking upward and resting his chin on his boyfriend’s chest. Shane's eyes still held a troubled gaze, but he did not press Ryan about it.

“Are you okay?” Shane murmured, “how can I help you? Tell me, Ryan.”

Not only did Ryan find himself a skeptic to date, he found himself _a detective with a 97% case-solving rate_. Lying was out of the question, (not that Ryan would ever be unfaithful to Shane, but it made issues like these harder to be upfront about.) And, _maybe_ Shane knew what bothered him already, maybe he thought it had to do with the case or with his visits to Kornfeld’s office every other day. Thankful that Shane didn't seem upset with him, Ryan shook his head and: “I just really want you to kiss me.”

Looking down at him, Shane perked up and went for it, pressing his lips to the corner of Ryan’s mouth. Exaggerating his kisses around Ryan’s cheek making him giggle before taking his lips to his own. Shane's lips overlapped his bottom lip, vigorously pressed with as much desire as he could fathom in a kiss. Ryan didn't know the rules of PDA at the workplace (although HR was pretty clear to keep it on the down-low,) it didn't stop them from going for it.

Shane kissed with all he had, pressing Ryan against his chest, holding his hand and once Ryan felt a pinch of confidence, Shane pulled away with a lingering kiss to his cheekbone. “That’s it for now,” he said in a raspy tone, his hand on Ryan’s scapula, squeezing the firm skin there as a way to tickle him, “more later. Or—” smiling, he lowered his head, his forehead on Ryan’s, “do you think it’s time for a break? Find a free room to _relax_ in?”

Squinting his eyes, Ryan fought the urge to laugh out loud, “I thought you were working hard. I’m gonna say no to that one big guy, Steven would rip my head off if I don’t get this shit done.”

Leaving Shane’s embrace was intolerable, though Shane’s remark of _I can show you that I work hard_ was excruciating to hear. Either way, he walked away from Shane’s arms, awkwardly going back to square one and sitting back on the couch to retrieve his discarded homework. He felt eyes on him, but he knew that Shane was done teasing him, it sent chills down his spine.

Taking a quick glance away from the report in hand, Ryan met the eyes of an expressionless disembodied woman as Shane left the room to grab them lunch. He didn't know if she wanted to tell him something, he kept his eyes on her and convinced himself that maybe she didn't. He shook his head, looking back at his report and blatantly ignored her.

It was going to be one of _those_ days.

…

In the end, Ryan kept it all to himself.

Which isn’t much of a surprise, at least, not to him. Days after, Ryan found himself in a imperative cycle of a brief meeting with Shane in the morning to work for the rest of the day, and sleeping at around one in the morning. He’d wake up earlier (or struggle to grab eight hours every night,) go on his merry way to Kornfeld’s office every couple of days and then (hopefully) see Shane by passing or during lunch.

Shane’s schedule had kept him away from Ryan since they last spoke. There wasn’t anything to blame him for, especially when the man himself claimed to work on overdrive to solve the case. On days where they’ve done their own bidding, Ryan realized that they _still_ haven’t spoken about their future.

Of course—given that they’ve dated for a couple of weeks max—there wasn’t much to talk _about_. What Ryan's heart set on was to go back to California and they both knew that. Ryan spoke about it often over dinner dates or late night talks. Hell, the entire crew _knew_ that he wanted to go home—not because he hated Chicago or them—because he missed obscurity and _not_ a public figure.

Shane supported him, promised that as soon as it was all over, Ryan would be able to return home and they’d… Well, Ryan doesn’t know what they’d do. 

Long distance? Was that an option to consider?

What about their careers? If they wanted to take the next step? 

To stay with Shane if it meant to leave his family behind?

Ryan closed his eyes, and tried not to upset himself anymore as he turned on the working faucet in his bathroom sink. The rush of timid water echoed in his eardrums as he cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. Rubbing his fingers over his eyes, he fought away exhaustion. 

Everyday was stressful, today wasn’t any different. 

He took a deep breath, moist strands of his black hair fell into his forehead, sticking to his skin and he exhaled slowly before turning off the faucet, and walking out of the bathroom with a towel over his shoulder. Ryan noticed the disarray on his desk, from documents sticking out of ring-binders to manila folders scattered and stacked over each other. On the corner of the desk stood a calendar, a dark-green marked today's date.

Right.

Christmas Eve.

Earlier in the day, Ryan called his brother. He had minimal time off—especially since the year was coming to a close—however, he took advantage of his time alone to go shopping. (With Kelsey, because it's _Kelsey_.) And although their talk was long, Jake held zero hostility towards him for missing _Christmas_ of all days. Through the phone, Ryan heard his family talk to each other, aunts and uncles from different cities gathering down and asking where Ryan was. 

His mother did cry, but she did not protest. Still, Ryan knew she was hurt and he felt like the world's cruelest son because he _couldn't_ reassure her that he'll be home soon. She was adamant for her son to not spend the holidays alone. Thus, eavesdropping Madej invited him over for dinner at his parent’s on Christmas day. 

(“ _He did what_?” Jake’s booming voice resonated through the phone, “ _you met his parents_?”

“ _I think it's a wonderful idea_ ,” their mother disregarded her youngest as he rambled. Her voice lifted, though her sniffles emanated through the receiver, “ _you’ll be safe right_?”

“Yes, mom. I don’t think he’d leave me alone for Christmas. His mother was really sweet last time we met—” Ryan winced when his brother let out a deafening scoff.)

As happy as he was when Shane offered to spend a holiday with him at his parent’s house _again_ , Ryan’s emotions led him to believe that maybe, _he_ should reconsider. Or at the very least, talk with his own boyfriend, damn it. Apart from worrying about their inevitable future—together or not—Ryan hadn't told him about what he found archived days ago.

To be fair, he forgot for a while before it came back to him late one night. He prepared himself to have a conversation about it with Shane when they had to separate for work. And Ryan missed him, immensely. With what little time they had with each other, Ryan couldn't bring himself to tell Shane. 

How could he tell him? How _would_ he?

_Hey, I found articles badmouthing you and your reputation by accident. Sorry but what the hell happened_?

It wasn’t really a conversation starter.

Ryan wrapped his gray cardigan over his chest when he heard knocks on the door. He turned his head and listened. Three rhythmical knocks on the wooden door confirmed Shane’s return but he still stepped away from view and hid behind a concrete wall. 

“Honey, I’m home,” Shane’s voice rang out, the sound of jingling keys and a shuffle of shoes calmed Ryan down before he stepped in front of his boyfriend. Shane was disheveled, bringing in his freezing hands and his snow boots before beaming at Ryan. “Hey, I bought us dinner. Did you shower?”

Ryan nodded, allowing himself to remove Shane’s scarf for him and tried not to recoil from the lack of heat. The sun had gone down hours ago, now their only source of light was the fluorescent light above them but Ryan was familiar with those takeout boxes inside the bag Shane held. Though his appetite was weakened by his anxiety and the bittersweet call with his family, Ryan instinctively took the plastic bag from Shane and began to dig through it.

“Get any chili sauce?”

“They ran out,” Shane replied, shaking off any melted snow from his hair, “I can go and get you some from the gas station?”

Normally, Ryan wouldn’t disagree as all of their food outings together required at least a trip to the gas station for condiments. But… the sudden thought of having Shane leave _again_ after days of not seeing each other overwhelmed Ryan to the point where he meekly shook his head and grasped Shane’s sleeve.

“W—why, Ryan,” Shane let out a chuckle, nervous, and had tugged on Ryan's hold on him gently, “I’m just going to the store—”

“I don’t want you to," Ryan said with firm tenacity, and his hold on Shane moved to his thin wrist, "let's—can we—let’s sit down.”

Shane’s eyes softened then, tossing his keys to the desk and reached for Ryan's hand and held it with his own, freezing, fingers. His expression from a carefree man dulled, lowering his head to match Ryan's height, "you're not hungry?”

“Not really,” Ryan tried to come up with an excuse to go along with his lack of appetite but he stopped himself from fueling the fire that was his state of mind. He wanted to talk to Shane.

A hand crossed his line of sight, placed atop of his forehead as Shane’s brows knitted in bewilderment, “are you sick? What happened?”

Fingers caressed his skin, Ryan tried not to furrow his eyebrows anymore, "no, no, I’m fine. I had a late lunch,” which _was_ the truth, “I wanted to talk to you whenever you got here.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, “about Kornfeld?”

Ryan’s visits with Zach were going smoothly, almost like having a friend around in a city he wasn’t accustomed to. A city where he was forced to isolate for his own safety with _little_ account for his social sanity. He talked about everything now, from his family to his paranormal investigations, and so far as speaking about his night terrors.

He had insomnia and his tendency to scratch at his shoulder loomed over him after all this time. He had to convince himself that he wasn’t doing himself, his family or his lover any favors by letting it simmer and went to a doctor. He was prescribed medication with side effects that he had to get used to. 

Any chance he’d get, Shane would sit him down at the end of the night and let him cry. _Bawl_ his eyes out without uttering a single word when all the words he wanted to say—all the things he wanted to talk about was about them.

_What are they going to do?_

Retelling his morning with Zach, Shane listened and ate silently on their shared bed. He still felt cold, his face returned to his healthy complexion but his body wasn’t used to a heated room. Scooting closer, Ryan wrapped his arm around Shane’s and inclined his head to Shane’s shoulder. Like that, Shane ate his food and asked questions about their day. 

Ryan was seconds away from snoozing when Shane hit him right where it hurt: “Ryan, do you want to go home after tomorrow?”

His eyes drew open, rounded as he turned to Shane, still holding on to him. Shane didn't look at him yet, tucking away the empty take-out boxes into the plastic bag, meticulously leaving Ryan's untouched food alone. “What?”

“I’m asking if you want to go home after Christmas,” Shane went on, stacking away his trash before adjusting himself on the bed and properly facing Ryan. “You can tell me the truth. If you want to leave—Kelsey and I found a way to keep you and your family safe. It could be… permanent or for the holidays, it’s up to you.”

“Besides,” Shane exhaled, clearly disgruntled to propose the idea, “you’ve told me before. Do you?”

Ryan gaped, speechless at the sudden request to _go home_ for the rest of the holidays or for good. To see his family again and be away from a case that he shouldn’t be involved with from the start. As much as he desired it—

What about them?

What did it mean to Shane when he asked him? Did he care? Does he want him gone?

Ryan’s lashes fluttered, tears glimmering in his eyes thinking about it. Shane saw it coming, but his stupid face dawned with sadness at making his boyfriend cry, he opened his mouth to apologize when Ryan beat him to it.

“No.”

_How could I leave you? What if they talk about you like that again?_

_Didn't I promise to stay by your side?_

_What about us?_

_I want to be with you for as long as I can. And though I want to see my family. You’re my chosen family._

“No, I don’t,” Ryan answered again, tears falling from his eyes to his cheeks, he roughly wiped them away with the back of his hand, “I want to stay. I—we need to talk about us and what we’re going to do. But I—I have something to tell you.”

Like that, Shane’s demeanor changed, uncrossing his legs and wrapping his arm around Ryan's shoulder. His hand pressed Ryan to his side, “I want you to stay. I _wanted_ you to stay. But, Ryan, I don’t want to keep you here against your will, you know that right?”

“Of course I do,” Ryan tried not to sag on his boyfriend, though Shane massaging his bicep made it difficult, “what about when this is all over? What are—what do you want?”

Shane continued to hold him silently, no word spoken between them but their embrace ended when Shane opened his mouth, “I don’t know.”

“You—” Ryan blinked, “you don’t know?”

“I _know_ that I love you, one way or another,” Shane responded wearily, “I’m not speaking for you. I know you want to go home.”

“Well,” Ryan swallowed, “if it makes you feel better, I don’t know what I want either.”

Shane kept his silence, sharing tranquility before he let out a soundless laugh. His eyes crinkled as he bobbed his head, “then we’ll be clueless together, say,” he caressed Ryan’s flushed cheeks, “what about living in the moment and figure it out when we cross that bridge? Just know—know that I don’t want to leave you, I want to be with you for as long as I can. If that means sending you letters, then so be it.”

Ryan blew out his cheeks and guffawed, suddenly thrilled to think about it. If that were their future, would it be so bad after all? He'd look forward to Shane contacting him every week or two and their reunions after being apart for so long. A part of him (the unreasonable, selfish part) wanted Shane to go with him but having him abandon his entire life was unfair. Either way—wait, did Shane—

Did Shane tell him he loved him?

“You love me?” Ryan muttered out breathlessly as he rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “You love _love_ me?”

“Well, yeah,” Shane tucked away Ryan’s loose strand of hair, his eyes narrowed at Ryan's wet hair, “you’re always there for me, supporting me, _feeding me_ , making sure I sleep all night. Isn’t that what your dad did for your mom? You sure do take from them, huh.”

“That’s so stupid,” Ryan remarked playfully, “why did you listen to me?”

“I always listen to you, honey-bunch,” Shane cooed, “how could I not?”

“I’m surprised you told me you love me, that’s all. Really, thought I’d say it first but you beat me to it! It’s kind of embarrassing.” 

Shane snorted, loosely taking his arm around Ryan and holding him close. He reeked of the outside, normally of pine and his cologne mixed with melted freezing droplets on his skin. He was warmer, embracing his walking heater and swaying them, “thank god you want to stay,” he quipped, “gonna need your noggin’ for the rest of this case, god willing if its one I won’t be able to solve—then the press would really come for my ass... you knew that already though, right?”

At this time, Ryan had shut his eyes and eased into his boyfriend’s mannerisms. Hearing those words alone struck a nerve, comprehending what Shane was insinuating and… the _asshole._

“ _Shane_ ,” Ryan almost wept, his arms lingered on Shane’s backside but he lifted his chin to meet his gaze. Shane was smiling, his eyes crinkled as he bounced with content laughter, still, Ryan urged to defend himself, “I can explain. _How_ the hell did you know?”

“I’m a private investigator, baby,” Shane countered, “and… you left an article from 'December of nineteen seventy-six' in Parker’s file on accident.”

“Am I that incompetent...” Ryan muttered to himself, his forehead pressed on Shane’s chest, feeling his voice echo through his eardrums when he laughed at him. 

“I sent you down there for a reason. Seeing it again really took me back,” Shane went on, “a trip down memory lane.”

Easing his head away from Shane’s chest, Ryan met his eyes, “then you _knew_ they were down there.”

“Well, _yeah,_ I knew,” Shane replied as it was obvious. Well, considering that Ryan wasn’t fuming at the ears or flushed with rage to blind-side him, it seemed evident that Shane wanted to keep those articles as proof that the case happened and he found justice for a young boy. “Devon reached out to these journalists, just in case I wanted to sue them for libeling. I kept the articles in retaliation. But the case itself,” Shane clicked his tongue, “you’ve gotta forgive me, little guy. It’s something I don’t want to talk about.”

Ryan understood. He wasn’t eager to read about it either, gathering from all the articles he’s seen, it didn't seem like smooth sailing to him. “And you didn't sue them?”

“Oh, I did,” Shane’s smile returned, “I help victim’s families sue reporters all the time. Look where it got the Roseberrys, _whew_ , who knew I could make the rich richer? I should be handcuffed for committing such crime.”

Laughing out loud, Ryan’s hand moved over Shane’s shoulder to his nape, holding his warm hand on his colder skin. In any way he could, Ryan wanted to hold onto Shane, afraid that he’d wake up from an insomniac dream alone. “I’m sorry I didn't tell you, I didn't want to bring it up out of nowhere. Even if I unintentionally did…”

“I appreciate it,” Shane settled on the bed, closer now that Ryan held him down firmly, “it must have bothered you for so long. You shouldn’t keep it to yourself, Ryan.”

“I shouldn’t have seen it in the first place. I’m sorry Shane.”

“What are you sorry for?” Shane gave a dismissive wave of his hand, “I would have told you sooner or later.”

“We wouldn’t be talking about it _now_ if I—”

“Please don’t demoralize yourself anymore,” Shane interrupted and gave a mirthless laugh, “it took years for me to accept that it happened. I don’t embrace it with open arms,” to emphasize his point, Shane’s arms tightened around him, making them lose balance and fall back on the bed with a soft thud, “I don’t dismiss it either. In all my years here, nobody stood beside me when these journalists talked shit about me. Nobody but you.”

Ryan blew out his cheeks, glancing at the white ceiling above them and understood what Shane meant. Shane hid his face in Ryan’s neck, warm breath tickling his collarbone when he spoke, “I know what it's like.”

Stunned, Shane head lifted a tad bit from his shoulder, and rested his chin by his shoulder, “do you?”

“Yeah,” Ryan mused, “my job isn’t praised throughout the masses, I think we could agree.”

Shane didn't say anything, rather keeping his mouth shut and lurking back to Ryan’s neck. Before the case began, Shane Madej was a man of his own and stayed within his jurisdiction as a detective. He never denounced anybody’s career publicly—in fact, when news reached L.A that Shane wanted Zach Evan’s name, it was a shock to them. 

Back then, Ryan knew that his name and Zach’s were out and about in the chaos that was the press hunting down information on a new case (including him, to be fair,) but Shane’s interest in journalists had been confusingly entertaining.

(Who knew Ryan would be working on said case _with_ him?)

And Ryan didn't deny his name to circulate locally. His reputation had been tossed around his community in California like you would a boomerang, given, that’s how most of his customers sought him out. But paranormal investigators, botany shop owners and native priests looked for his insight (Curly’s mostly,) and spread his name around like wildfire. His videos didn't help put it out either, only fueled into what hate would target him.

And god, were people cruel.

“I would ignore them since I love what I do. But…” pausing, Ryan covered his eyes with his arm, “the first time I felt a connection to the paranormal was at Queen Mary and the thought of people taunting what I went through there... was too much to handle. I stopped traveling and worked with Curly.”

“ _They_ forced me to lay low and dismiss my passion. I was just afraid they’d laugh at me again. I’m not a medium,” Ryan neglected Shane’s cheeky expression, “maybe I don’t _know_ anymore. It feels awful, so I was outraged to see it in person. Fuck, the shit they wrote about you, Shane,” he lifted himself from the bed with his elbow as Shane remained on laying on the silk sheets, staring up at him, “how could they say that about you? How could their boss let them?”

Shane let out a breath through his nose, gesticulating with his right hand before resting it on Ryan’s stomach, “money will get you anywhere. They needed a story to tell and I was their brand-new youthful, intern to mess with. Eugene wasn’t happy about it, nobody was. I felt humiliated and locked myself in, though the press were outside my door every day.”

Groaning, Ryan rolled his eyes and covered them with his hands, falling back to the bed, “ _how_!”

Shuffling on the bed could be heard and Shane’s figure loomed over Ryan’s as he reached under the sleeve of Ryan's cardigan and wrap his fingers around his wrist, “it seems like we have something in common,” he whispered lowly, barely reaching Ryan’s ears, his expression unreadable until his downcast eyes welled with tears, “promise me that you won’t stop believing in ghosties or ghouls or demons or whatever it is you love.”

Ryan wanted to laugh in his face because that would be impossible as he could _see_ one. He kept it together and stared at Shane’s solemn features. “I would never.”

“Would you? Even if the press goes in with all they have?”

“Never.” And it was the truth, nobody could stop Ryan’s belief, not even Shane, who decided to keep him around despite being a hardcore skeptic.

“Promise—promise that you would never think to—to consider your life to be less to—y’know—” Shane swallowed thickly, his grip loosened and Ryan took it as a sign to sit up and embrace his shaken boyfriend. Hinting that he didn't have to continue his sentence.

“I promise Shane.” Was all Ryan managed to say, running his hand under Shane’s shirt, his fingers caressing the distinctive skin of his boyfriend’s back, “I promise.”

Shane’s chin rested on the curve of his shoulder, losing strength to keep himself upright and fall face first on top of Ryan’s body. He was heavy, as anyone would be, but his weight was comfortable to hold. He squirmed to adjust him as they held each other when he felt Shane’s knee languidly stroke his inner thigh. 

Ryan keened unknowingly, letting out a muted gasp and creating further friction between them. He was about to laugh timidly _or_ at least move away when Shane lifted his head to meet his eyes. He had tears drying around his under eye, his mouth agape and stared as he… he moved his knee away and replaced the space between Ryan’s thighs with his hips.

He moved, and the moment he felt Shane tug his cardigan from his shoulders, Ryan wanted more.

Ryan took in the sight of his crestfallen partner and reached for his cheeks with his thumbs when Shane’s hips rolled over his lower body. With his thumbs over Shane’s cheekbones, Ryan let out a mewl and tilted his head back with an peculiar sensation running over his lower stomach. 

His lips parted when Shane’s hips became swifter and rubbed towards his crotch. He couldn’t help himself to blush and breathe heavier until Shane’s lips covered his own. His bottom lip caressed by Shane’s but his movements didn't stop there, he kneeled and thrusted upward between their clothed lower bodies. 

"Fuck," Ryan hissed, a soft groan erupted from his throat as his boyfriend's hands tucked under his shirt. Ryan's hand clenched, gripping strands of Shane's hair as he pressed his hips down, Shane drove up, particularly rough—vigorously enough to render Shane still with a gasp and Ryan's mouth opened with a voiceless moan, his back bone throbbed for _several_ minutes before he caught his breath and Shane recovered from the aftershocks of their hips brushing together.

It wasn't a second later when Shane moved, a rush of his hips pressing down on Ryan's thigh, and lowered himself to kiss Ryan. Ryan felt it all, unsure as to what to do with his hands, he held Shane’s bicep firmly as they moaned in each other’s lips. He never felt something as strong as this before and even if they had made out before, this was the first time they’d initiate anything sexual between them. 

Accepting it, Ryan joined Shane’s thrusts and pushed his shirt halfway and over his head. Shane’s shirt messed up his hair (or more so than before) but also separated their kiss. Seeing as Shane was willing too, Ryan took in the sight of his tousled boyfriend, cheeks flushed and heavy gasps. 

“I love you,” Ryan quavered, surprised at his hoarse voice and reached for Shane’s nape, pressing kisses to his neck, “love you, love you, love you— _ah_ —”

His words were interrupted by Shane’s lips again, their lips plump and crimson from their excessive kissing but Shane’s _hips_ refused to give it up. Ryan had arched his back, groaned and whined between Shane’s mouth as his warm hands took off Ryan’s shirt for him. He turned his neck to the side and opened his eyes, admiring the warmth of Shane’s tongue on his neck when he squinted at the brightness of the alarm clock on the bedside table, minutes before midnight in Chicago, minutes away from Christmas.

Shane’s words brought him back to reality, “I love you,” Ryan let out a moan when Shane repeated his smooches around the sensitive areas of his chest, “I _love_ you,” Shane’s hands kneading Ryan’s sternum before heading under the hem of his sweatpants.

Minutes before Christmas, neither of them cared to remember. Not even when they finally found comfort in sleep hours later, exhausted and clammy with sweat, only three words circling around their hearts.

_I love you_.

How long would it last?

* * *

  
  


Ryan woke up freezing underneath his bedsheets. He squinted his eyes, furrowing his forehead and dazzled, draped the blanket around the crevices where the air was infiltrating his deep sleep. He slept around four in the morning, thus, he had no quips of waking up to the sun at its highest. 

Groaning, he rubbed his face in his pillow, inhaling the scent of his shampoo and turned to his side. He expected to see Shane asleep, but found himself further bewildered to nobody by his side. It explained his freezing self, still, he lifted his shoulder and held himself up with his elbow. 

The bed sheet fell off his bare chest as he wiped the drowsiness from his eyes. Beside him, where his boyfriend would have been was a note, ripped out from the hotel’s stationary and written with what Ryan assumed, the pen on the adjacent bedside table. He reached for it, holding it to the light and practically woke himself up to understand what he was reading.

_Ryan, got called in the office by Eugene. Emergency. Don’t worry, we're safe. I’ll tell you about it when I see you._

_Love you._

So last night wasn’t a fever dream.

It had been too real—the warmth of Shane’s hands on him, his touch and his promise to have him for the rest of his life—nothing hinted Ryan that it _wasn’t_ real. His heart began to beat unusually quicker, if he held his hand over his chest, he could probably _feel_ it. 

Taking a breath, Ryan laid back down and smiled to himself, covering his face with his hands and tried to relax. He must have spent another couple of minutes in bed before he dug himself out from his sheets, the downside of it all, he was fully naked and _cold_. By lunchtime, he occupied himself with room service and television on his own when he remembered that today was a holiday.

It was Christmas.

His parents vowed to send presents and postcards from L.A after the holidays, which they had coerced Jake into bizarre pictures on his lonesome. At the time, Ryan found it hilarious to witness until melancholy set in, those polaroids would be void of him this year.

But… could he promise that he’d be there next Christmas?

Throughout his twenties, his relationships had him split the holidays with his family and whoever he was involved with. The relationships were sweet, lasting longer than he’d expected and had no issue to spend the holidays two houses at a time. Yet, Shane lived in Chicago—where his parents lived, where he was going to spend the rest of the evening at. 

Would Ryan go back to Chicago? Would he _stay_ for good?

Is that what he wanted?

Ryan groaned, maybe he should call Shane.

Uninterested in the program on the television, he sat up and reached for the telephone. His hand leveled with the specter in the room, although he’s gotten used to Mary Roseberry looming over him wherever he went, he didn't expect her to be this close. Astonished, his eyes darted to her stoic face and jolted upright when her apparition faded with the wallpaper. She could have been looked over if Ryan didn't pay close attention. 

She trained her eyes on the telephone, almost as if she was waiting for somebody to call. Utterly confused, Ryan opened his mouth, “um… are you okay?”

Mary didn't look at him, but her hand twitched at the sound of his voice. He assumed that’s why she had moved, and without another word offered to both parties, the phone’s ring echoed in the room. Letting out a yelp, Ryan pressed on the handle of the intercom and answered, “hello?”

“ _Ryan, chiquito, why haven’t you called? Do you have any idea what day it is!_ ”

Upon hearing Curly’s voice, Ryan calmed down. Of course he’d call when Ryan had a moment of distress with his newfound ghost friend. As if reading his mind, Curly went on, “ _you’re quiet, did you really forget what day it is_?”

“Um,” Ryan scratched his temple, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, “I was _going_ to call, I just woke up an hour ago.”

Silence from the other line before Curly let out a chuckle through the receiver, “ _I knew it! I knew you didn't forget about me_.”

“You’re my best friend, I wouldn’t forget you,” Ryan replied earnestly, “I sent your present a week ago, have you gotten it yet?”

“ _Not yet_ ,” Curly’s voice mocked indignation, “ _what did you get me? A cauldron? A witch’s hat? Maybe you with a little bow on your head_?”

“A _cauldron_?” Ryan reiterated jovially because if he wanted to see said cauldron in their shared living room, he would. He has gotten gifts from family members, though Curly's had yet to arrive (according to him, it wasn't _samuhero_ this time and Ryan shivered as he remembered what happened months ago,) and had been promised something that he would love. Leaning on the bedside to not further distress the telephone cord, “I miss you, you know I’d ship myself down to you if I could.”

“ _Please don’t_ ,” Curly told him in faultless Spanish, calling him a few choice nicknames on top of it, “ _don’t leave your boyfriend behind. Speaking of, you didn't tell me you’re spending Christmas with his family! Are you both ready for long-term commitment_?”

“If you think I’m getting married before the year ends,” Ryan began to tease, “let that fantasy end, god knows what I’m going to do when this is over.”

Curly grew quiet again, though this time around it was strikingly different. He felt his anxiety stack on him when Curly asked: “ _what do you mean_ _you don’t know_? _Aren’t you staying_?”

Perplexed, Ryan let out a chuckle before lying down on the bed again, tucking the phone between his neck and shoulder, “no? Who told you that? I’m coming back eventually.”

“ _Nobody told me, I thought you would want to stay…. Considering, Shane lives there,_ ” Curly emphasized on Shane, the mirthful tone of his voice waned to what Ryan loved to call ‘serious Curly’ and he prepared himself for advice. Ryan hadn't imagined that Curly, _Curly,_ of all people he knew, would want him to stay miles away. Especially as his roommate _and_ coworker, Curly would have been the first one to plead Ryan to come back home as fast as possible.

“I’m not _that_ used to the cold,” Ryan joshed absentmindedly, believing that bringing up the mood would change the subject.

“ _Ryan_ , _be serious_ ,” Curly scolded, “ _why do you want to leave_? _Is there something going on_?”

As much as Ryan loved to be on the phone, he was utterly lost on where this conversation was going. What was wrong with leaving Chicago? Wasn’t the plan to go back home after it was all over? Wasn’t he the one to advocate seeing Jake and his family again? To live with Curly again?

Then it must mean—

He jolted up, a lump settled on the bottom of his throat and he leant closer to the bedside and muttered, “are you hiding something from me?”

He wanted the answer that wouldn’t tear his heart to shreds, but Curly’s silence confirmed that _maybe_ it held true. “ _Ryan, I was going to tell you after the holidays. Lindo, after what happened months ago... we're afraid for you and its dangerous here. I'm not going to sign the lease for another year. We thought, if you were to come back... you'd be isolated._ ”

Ryan felt his world fall apart, standing from the bed and walking around with his fingers urgently wanting to itch his shoulder, “so—what about _you_? I mean, where are you going?”

“ _My grandmother is alone at her house. I was thinking of living with her for a couple of months. Listen Ryan, if I knew you’d come back soon, I wouldn’t have agreed to move_.”

“No, no, don’t stop yourself from doing what you think is best,” Ryan argued, he motioned with his hands even if Curly couldn't see him, he lifted his head when he passed by the Roseberry twin and looked into her eyes, “what about the shop?”

“ _That’s what I was going to talk to you about_. _I'm going to take a bit of a break._ ”

Ryan’s head swirled with unanswered questions, all that had picked at his tendency to deny change in the first place. What about money? What about transportation? Wouldn’t it be practical to have the shop closer to you? How long?

Why was everything changing before his eyes? And he couldn't stop it?

With Jake in school, Ryan convinced himself to go back to work to support his brother. Aside from working as his father’s receptionist, the shop was all he had and he respected Curly’s decision for his own family. Ryan couldn’t go against his own friend because after all, it was _his_ apartment they shared, _his_ shop that he created. But now, he couldn't be certain if he'd return to his family (or to his father,) and he'd be lucky to find himself a job to support his family.

Mary Roseberry couldn't give two shits, though Ryan desperately wished she would. 

“Mm,” Ryan, speechless and numb, croaked, “we—we will talk about it later. When I get back."

“ _We will_ ,” Curly went on, _“you still didn't answer my question. Why do you want to leave? Are you unhappy_?”

That’s… far from the truth. At first, his doubt of traveling to the Midwest were practical and he had little appeal to stay there for more than a year. Now, he grew to the city, the people he met and the man he’s become attached to. Sure, his life in L.A was comfortable, he had his weekends with buds, weekdays with the family and dates here and there. 

As if his once stable, comfortable life fell apart, Ryan realized: “I’m the happiest I’ve been in years.”

“ _Then why_?”

He didn't know. Curly? Curly who was moving to be with his family—Curly who opened himself to Ryan and accepted him, who taught him about Brujeria, who loves him. Curly, who threw complaints whenever Ryan lost or used up one of his botanic pouches, but then Ryan would wake up with new ones on his beside table, (not to mention extra, just in case.)

He missed his family. He missed his little brother, and skipped on him moving to campus; his father had hired a new receptionist to replace Ryan, though he had told Ryan over the phone how he missed watching over his eldest son. His mother—thinking about his mother distressed him the most, to never see her, hug her, or even introduce her to Shane—he couldn't think much about her without tearing up.

What did he have other than to see them once in a while? If he _could_ see them? 

What did he have here that L.A didn't?

Shane.

Again, the thought of leaving Shane was worst-case scenario. From all that he saw with him and his lovely parents, Shane didn't _once_ think of himself first and whenever Ryan was homesick, he was ready to send him home if he needed to. Ryan stopped himself from considering—not until it was safe enough to—but now that he thought to leave, it was almost a lost cause.

He imagined himself stranded in L.A, in a new apartment by himself and looking for retail shops to invest money in. Maybe he’d see Curly, maybe his friends a few more times. And he’ll write letters to Shane, he’d call him and tell him everything about L.A. Ryan wished that for once he could be selfish, to take Shane back to California with him, open up a shop and start a life together.

Not for visits, to _live_.

But Ryan couldn’t. Shane had a life here. As much as Ryan had a life in L.A.

Shane wants him to go. He would never ask Ryan to stay.

Tears gathered in his eyes, pressing himself to think about his little brother, about the money that his family needed and his best friend. 

He couldn’t stay. It would mean leaving them behind.

“I really love him, Curly,” Ryan sobbed through the phone, reached for his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the upcoming headache. “I love him so much. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever met and I want to be with him. But _I can’t_. My family needs me. Jake needs to stay in college and it’s _expensive_. I can’t leave them.”

“ _Ryan, don't cry_ ,” Curly soothed in Spanish, softly speaking through the receiver as Ryan’s eyes blurred with his tears. His sobs resounded through the hotel room and he met Roseberry’s soulless eyes. She looked at him, unsure as if she could see his vulnerability through their mortal plane. " _Nobody is telling you to do that. You have a life of your own and you decide what you want to do. Your parents want what is best for you. If they knew how happy you are, they’d beg you to stay_.”

Sniffing, “no, no. I’ve always helped them. I can—I can get two jobs in L.A—”

“ _For what—for what, Ryan? For you to be unhappy?_ ”

_There’s nothing for me here_! He wanted to scream, _Shane doesn't want me to be here! He knows I’d make him miserable all the time! He wants me to leave!_

“I don’t know,” Ryan wept, quieter now as he erased any sign of distress from his face. He rose, taking the phone in hand and to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet seat, almost defeated. “Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Curly exhaled through the phone, discouraged to continue their conversation and did what Ryan asked of him. To distract him as Ryan washed his face, he told him about L.A. Curly was at his family’s house for the holidays and paid a visit to Ryan’s parent’s house to reassure him that they were doing well.

Their conversation was one-sided before Ryan forced himself to lift up his mood. Talking about whatever that came to mind, Ryan finally wishing Curly a happy holiday before ending their call.

For the next hour, Ryan roamed through his hotel room. He strained himself to think of anything other than Shane and decided that reading was the best option. Halfway into Shane’s unfinished report, he felt eyes on him _again_. He closed his eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. Holding the report above his chest, he turned his head to the deceased twin.

“I can feel you looking at me,” he said soberly then looked back at the document in his hands. “If you have something to say, I would advise you to try.”

A while ago—when Mary Roseberry appeared to him for the first time—Ryan had tried all of his equipment to see if they could communicate. She did not bother to touch, nor did she seem like she knew what he was doing. Neither of his methods worked and he concluded that perhaps she couldn’t hear him. Almost as if she were a figment of his own imagination, manifesting as his dread and trepidation that grew after a trip to Pendulum. 

He didn't hear a word from her. Frustrated, he squeezed his hand, “are you judging me too? _What_? Am I doing something _wrong!_?”

His head jerked in her direction when he caught her eyes narrow for a split second before looking away. 

Ryan froze, she’s never done that before.

Hesitantly, Ryan shoved away the report onto the bed, attentively rose and tossing his legs over the bed. She was standing by the lounging area in his room, albeit a regular hotel room, he had the luxury of extra chairs and a table by the window with no particular view. 

He walked to her side and loomed over her. She was tiny, both in structure and height—though, she was invisible half of the time so perhaps that didn't matter. She did not look at him when he did, through her eyes moved suspiciously, almost as if she felt him.

“Hey,” he whispered, bent his knees to reassure that he wasn't here to harm her. His thighs cried out, sore, and Ryan had an idea how Shane's neck must feel, “sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You should know that I am more scared of you.”

It was ironic to him that he was apologizing for scaring a ghost, more so a disembodied person who he can sometimes see. She still didn't speak, and Ryan’s bubbling anger subsided when he realized that he must have yelled at the top of his lungs for this kind of reaction. 

“I think you can hear me,” he went on, shivering from the energy she emitted. The poor girl wasn’t strong, nor did her presence alone invoke anything but goosebumps here and then, “if you can. I’m really sorry I scared you. A lot has been going on in my stupid little head,” he insulted himself and tried to offer a smile, “I think you know that though. I bet you seen me sulk around. Have you ever been in love before?”

Suddenly, Mary’s eyes rounded. Her head bowed to the floor, but her expression began to harden. Ryan gaped, cowered from her when she looked up, directly making eye contact with mournful eyes. 

That's new.

Taken aback, Ryan recoiled as soon as she made eye contact. Almost as if he were looking into his own eyes.

No.

Those _were_ his eyes. He was looking at himself.

“You—” interrupted, he trailed off when he heard familiar knocks on the door. Barely having time to realize what happened, he turned his head over his shoulder for a split second, hearing Shane’s laughter through the door when he announced himself into the room.

“Hey!” Shane greeted, closing the door behind him, “do I have a story for you. Did you eat lunch yet? I got you something from the cafeteria, everything else is closed—are you okay? What are you doing?”

Ryan, startled, peered at the sight of his boyfriend. He had been wearing brand new clothes and his long hair styled, his own aura giggly and _joyful_. He pushed down his emotions and came up with a harmless lie, “I was cleaning,” he kneeled to the ground, picking up Shane’s chinos, “these are yours.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth quirked upwards as he walked to Ryan’s side, his large hand enclosed over Ryan’s and took his pants from him. “They are,” he bent his head down, pressing a kiss on Ryan’s temple, “you took them off for me, remember?”

Ryan wrinkled his nose, a smile creeping on his face as Shane kissed him repeatedly, “how did it go?”

“ _Very_ good,” teasing, Shane’s lips traced Ryan’s jawline, “I missed you. Didn't want to leave bed.”

Ryan wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, intertwining his hands on the base of his back and rested his chin on Shane’s chest, “It’s been a couple of hours big guy,” 

“Lots of things happened since I left your side,” Shane insisted, tightening his grip on Ryan’s shoulder and lifting his head away from his neck, “but—can I kiss you first?”

“You’ve _been_ kissing me,” Ryan laughed before placing his hand on the back of Shane’s head, pulling him down and pressing his bottom lip on Shane’s. His boyfriend reciprocated instantly, exchanging their love for each other for a couple of seconds before separating. Both out of breath, Ryan’s hand traveled to Shane’s abdomen, “I missed you too. What did they need you for?”

Shane beamed, giddy, and unwrapped himself from Ryan’s arms, “sit down first, it’s going to take a while.”

Ryan’s brain was groggy, mostly over the fact that Shane seemed abnormally euphoric over a trip to the office. He could only assume that he’s gotten evidence back from New York or they’ve found a new lead. Either one—Ryan instinctively looked back to Mary Roseberry, seeing as this was _her_ case.

But turned around to see nothing at all. 

This wasn’t the first time she’s disappeared. She’d travel with him, he confirmed. Wherever he had gone, she’d follow as if she was connected to his strange-aura-sensing abilities or whatever. Still, he was _in_ a small room and it wasn’t likely she was in the bathroom, as he was staring inside the dark, empty doorway.

She was gone.

Ryan, being that he couldn’t exactly panic in front of Shane—who didn't know that he saw Mary Roseberry to begin with—kept quiet and turned his heel to the desk where Shane had been with their lunch. Ryan stared at the to-go containers, befuddled and tried to rationalize that maybe, _maybe_ she’ll come back eventually.

_Have you ever been in love before_?

By the time Shane sat him down to eat and announced that Lydia had returned from Louisiana—the happiest Ryan's seen him in months, with his smile and squinted eyes that Ryan's heart could not calm down from the sight of it alone—Ryan knew that Mary Roseberry was gone for good.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Happy new year!! \o/
> 
> I hope all of you are doing well and are safe during this crazy time right now, here's an update to help you escape for a bit! :)
> 
> So happy to announce the story is finished. Completed and 100% edited. With that in mind, the last two chapters (14 + Epilogue) will be posted on the same day. So double update!!! Last update will be on **January 23rd.**
> 
> So sad it's almost over, what a ride its been really... thank you all really for reading, I appreciate you all! <3
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** This chapter has descriptions of murder.

**DECEMBER 1988  
Chicago, Illinois**

If anybody told Shane that he’d be standing in front of a bulletin board littered with photographs that resembled the diabolical when he entered the office that morning, he would believe it.

Ten years ago? Six months ago? Maybe not, but now that he was said situation he’d never thought of being in, he couldn’t deny that maybe he would have shrugged his exhausted shoulders and exclaim _what the hell, people do weird shit_.

People do weird shit all the time, they kill and steal—taking away precious time Shane could be spending doing... don't know, literally _anything else_. (In other universes, Shane would have applauded them because they _somehow_ found a way to infuriate him. If they weren’t _murderers_. Of course that wouldn't happen, because the multi-verse wasn't real.) If anybody thought Shane would be working _with_ the police to look for an adult man, ages eighteen to twenty-four and _possibly_ goes by an alias—and assumed it was a simple open-and-close case—

They would be a fool to think at all.

His theory—a demo of his theory; on the Roseberry case of 1988, stationed in Chicago, Illinois and terrorizing the well-being of four different families—had concluded after the holidays but before the new year. As planned, his team were locked in their meeting room, the lights still flickered and the chairs a bit wobblier than before, but it’d do.

Ryan didn't protest despite being stuck there since eight in the morning, hair tousled and on his second cup of coffee. He had been the third person to know what he had been working on, although the last to know what Shane had plotted. He wanted to ensure anonymity or as much as he could before it would come to fruition; finally, Shane reached out to Eugene for insight on his grammar and to Devon for all her preliminary reports.

By the end of the workday—and after Ryan’s caffeinated nap—Shane heard the footsteps of employees leaving the office. Kind of comical to see them go as his team remained, unbothered as they had been working past their designated shifts to solve this case.

By 6 P.M, Shane Madej stood in front of his bulletin board and embarked on his theory. Or tried to. 

His colleagues were talkative.

“Never lived to see the day where Shane’s pointing at a picture of a pentagram,” Steven declared as they waited for the last of the department’s employees to leave, “did you finally crack? Are ghosts real?”

Shane cracked his knuckles and pondered, “I dunno. But hey, if we’re talking real, _this_ ,” Shane pointed at the first bulletin, a censored photograph of the homicide in the Roseberry house wedged on its spongy interior. Given the circumstances, he chose to grant the victims privacy as he tried his best to make sure their perpetrator is found soon.

And soon he’ll get him.

“This is as real as it gets. July 1988, approximately four months ago, Mary and Isabelle Roseberry were found by our esteemed colleagues, Marchbank and myself. Their autopsies revealed blunt force trauma as their cause of death." Shane paused, tilted his head towards the door when Devon walked towards it, shutting it closed. "Their birthdays had recently passed. Sixteen.”

He knew that the silence in the room was for him, though a bit somber, he went on, “seven days after, Susan Parker was found strangled to death in her home after _she_ informed us that she'd relocate in Louisiana indefinitely. In August 1988, Daniel Amari was found murdered and decapitated by his wife and—and Garrett Wren in September 1988, died of blunt force trauma to the head.”

Shane stopped to glance at Devon, who reached for the report he was reading to switch with his final draft. His description of their death went into detail there, and he gave each of his members a copy in case they were interested—funny, as if they hadn’t known already what happened. 

“We, as a team, concluded that most, if not all, of the victims are linked to one another and due to their relation with each other and the time frame of the murders, we agreed that we are confronting a serial killer. Possibly one person of interest, although we cannot say for sure,” he flipped a page, “I theorize that this chain reaction has not finished, _yet_ , more on that later. Feel free to ask questions.”

He placed the report on the table, stepping forward and showcasing his bulletin. As promised, it was censored and held key evidence to the case itself, “the case will present itself but please keep in mind this is a theory and a theory alone. Please hold any remarks until the end, especially with the nature of this case—which has gone national, despite our efforts—none of the information introduced today would _not,_ and I mean _none_ ,” Shane's voice lowered, though he spoke up to emphasize that if anything regarding his theory was spoken to the press, he'd have to isolate himself from committing murder himself, " _none_ of this will be public until it is solved."

After a month of analyzing the most convoluted case in his career, Shane looked at the photograph of the house where it all began; the picture had been taken hours before the sisters were found, the sun in the background had started to set and illuminate the crime scene with a hue of orange and crimson. The house was enclosed by yellow tape, but stood tall, untouched with old paint or creaks. 

As if nothing sinister had occurred in the first place.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**JULY 1988**

**TIME: ???  
  
Chicago, Illinois — Stella's Diner.**

Mary whirled around and stepped away from her table. She had her eyes trained on the notepad on her hand, her fingers moved as she wrote what the man ordered— _today's special, a double, and a chocolate milkshake for his daughter_ —and skipped over her coworker with a smile. She felt an ache in the back of her head when she bent down for two mugs, and although it had been four in the afternoon, she turned on the coffeepot.

Mary Roseberry worked as a waitress.

In the early hours of the morning, she’d be the first to leave the house. The diner she had applied for accepted her months prior at the age of fifteen; abruptly shoved into the kitchen with her new uniform in hand, she began to work.

Her sister said it was to distract them while their parents had left, which wasn't unusual. Their parents left the city every other month, leaving time for their children whenever they found it necessary to. Though, she wanted to call them. Or reach them somehow. She felt as if she _should_ , though couldn't explain why. Mary loved having friends over. She had plenty who invited her out in the middle of the night or during school hours. Belle hated this, but she’d come back with a gift or two for her to apologize for leaving her alone in that empty house. 

And _maybe_ Mary was reluctant to have anyone over right now. But that was for herself. Belle always worried, no matter what Mary would say to comfort her, it would always end in an argument. 

She attempted to push the though to the back of her head, at the same time she ripped the pages with written orders from her notepad, squeamish as she felt the damp paper between her manicured fingers. A smear of grape jam stained the latest order, right over chocolate milkshake and turned to keep herself busy. She didn't make it two steps before pausing, her head throbbed and accumulated sweat on her forehead dripped over her eyes, sticking her bangs on her forehead. 

Mary felt eyes on her. But what good would that do when you work at a diner? She scanned the restaurant, a handful of customers sat and eat, lively with each other and with their backs to Mary. So then what was it? She exhaled, twisted her body behind her, hand over her beating heart and tried to relax. She was just anxious, _she had to be._

Especially with Belle—Mary turned her head at the call of her name from a younger woman, sat behind the man and his daughter, who occupied themselves with their own conversation, she strode in that direction, placing the mug in front of the father. 

"Honey," the woman drawled, her eyes gleamed with sincerity, "be a dear and get me 'nother?" The woman swung her cup in hand, which she could recall as coke. Mary nodded, wordlessly doing what was asked of her and thought of her sister again—with sundresses and messy braids, Mary wished for her parents to stick around, although growing up with the idea that it wouldn’t happen was cemented in her brain. It didn't matter, she had Belle.

  
  
...

**JULY 1988**

**TIME: ???  
  
Chicago, Illinois — Roseberry House.**

Mary tucked away her apron, exhaling profusely as she walked out of her car. The driver’s door squealed under her grasp as she slammed it closed and took a long breather into the hot summer day. She felt drops of sweats on her forehead, wiping them away with her forearm as she cautiously dodged potholes in the road to her front lawn.

She must have been too occupied in her thoughts to hear the faint noise of the lawnmower from the backyard. Once it reached her ears, she froze and wondered what she should do. Isabelle wasn’t home yet, and it was rude of her to ignore the man outside her house in this heat. 

Finding enough courage to get through another day, she walked across the front lawn and to her door, using her keys, she entered her house. Vacant and spotless, she lingered in the hallway for a moment and walked towards the kitchen. Maybe Tylenol would help.

She tried to keep herself as stealthy, though as she came across the window pane, she could not avert her eyes from the outside. Thankfully, he wasn't there, though she couldn't ignore how skittish she got, her cheeks flushed and on the urge of packing her and her sister's clothes and leaving this fucking town. Fuck them all. Her eyebrows furrowed as she bent down, opening the medicine drawer. She was engaged in taking two tablets that when she lifted her head, she was face-to-face with her sister's not-boyfriend.

She gasped, silent as he was staring through the window pane. She knew he probably wouldn't hear her anyway if she had screamed, though the expression on her face—shown from the reflection of the window and of his sullen cheeks and that damned tattoo—he probably knew she was terrified. Without a word, he raised his hand, and waved. Mary found herself lucky to have not yelled, but she was frozen in place, her hands clenched as she nodded and offered a wobbly smile, her lips trembled as he walk through the kitchen’s garden away from the window.

Mary paid zero attention to his absence as the lawnmower roared from her father's shed and ran from the kitchen. Isabelle would be home when she prepared for bed, she’d be fine in her room until then. 

...

She heard it before she saw it happen. 

Her radio was on the lowest volume, preparing to jolt downstairs to let her sister inside the house before anyone else did. But she heard the roar of the lawnmower burst into life. At first she presumed a neighbor, but her excuses couldn’t account for the fact that it was the middle of the night.

She groaned, slamming her pen on the notebook she was writing in and rolled off the bed to the entrance of the doorway. Before she left her own room, she heard Belle's heart-wrenching scream.

* * *

“All of this was in her diary?” Steven’s voice echoed in Shane’s ears, “from her early teens to June of 1988, this was all written?”

“Everything told is from Mary’s words, confirmed to be her handwriting,” Shane answered swiftly, “Ryan found the diary back in August, untouched, though, after sending it out to New York, only her fingerprints alongside the assailant's fingerprint were found."

Shane walked over to the projector screen, substituted a photograph of Mary Roseberry's diary with two sets of fingerprint analysis; one of the victim and the other to match the perpetrator. He peered at the unique impressions of the assailant's fingerprint **—** he must have been in a haste, quick to eliminate all evidence that he had been there, but Katie was thorough, and she inspected every page, every letter, every margin. He could never get away from her.

"What about the missing dates? From June to July?"

Shane averted his eyes, back to Lim, "we don’t have pages after June 1988, they had been ripped out.”

Steven nodded to himself, scratching at his chin before shutting his mouth. Steven, of course, knew that the diary had been missing pages, though, he did not know the contents in between.

Mary wrote about her life as a teen, starting during her early school days and eventually writing unread, unfinished letters or stories on top of what she had done that day. Filled to the brim were her fantasies and realities, if she were true, Mary’s sister worked the night shift and left Mary alone most of the day.

“Every diary entry from April to May had been describing her days as a working waitress and of her sister. She described Isabelle as her loving sister, who treated her kindly and spoke in a few words at a time.”

Shane flipped through the scanned pages of Mary's diary, his nimble fingers stroked on its rough edges, with minimalistic handwriting that did not intersect with her words, “this happened recently, almost as if they found comfort with each other with a stranger—supposedly somebody who had access to their house.”

“In this time frame,” Steven, again, spoke, “when did the necklace appear? Did she write about that too?” 

“Once,” Shane replied, “on April 1988, her sister gave Mary the necklace. Not exactly for what reason, but after that, Mary’s migraines worsened and Isabelle was seen never wearing the necklace.”

He reached into a manila folder, resting on the case file box (or three boxes total) and hoped it was the right one. He reached for a set of photographs, all organized with dates in the back, one of which was in the house itself, taken in May 1988 and early June 1988, none had Isabelle with the identical necklace that her sister wore.

Shane placed the report on the table, looking at the last paragraph he had typed, and took a breath before flipping the page, “that’s all I have on the girls. If correct, Mary’s routine must have happened on that July night. The next morning, the police were called and I had arrived on the scene a quarter to nine after Mary did not show up for her shift.”

His team grew silent, Shane gave his boyfriend a quick glance in the corner of his eye, seeing as he was upset to hear this case constantly. “It _isn’t_ conclusive," he stressed, Ryan looked alright, he did not fidget in his chair but sat patiently. He looked tired. "Who knows what happened during the night. But it's something to consider. What we _do_ know, is that Susan Parker is connected to him, thus connected to Daniel Amari and Garrett Wren.”

Shane's eyes briefly met with Ryan's, his brown eyes confirmed that he was following along, but his slight smile troubled Shane. He wanted to know what Ryan was thinking right now and he wanted nothing more to stop and hold him, ask him what was wrong with him. He stopped himself from considering it, and turned to his team instead:

“Due to sudden appearance by Susan Parker’s cousin, Lydia Nguyen and her belief that she might be on the killer’s hit-list, we might have a slight chance of catching him in the act.”

All of the faces looking at him had been quiet before, though with this new information (who Devon and Ryan _knew_ to an extent,) they blossomed into talkative butterflies. Standing up from her seat, Kelsey knocked over a tin of pencils beside her, “she’s _back_? And a _target_ and you’re mentioning it _now_?”

“We don’t know where the killer is,” Shane smiled smugly, proud that he kept it a secret for _days_ , (and coerced Ryan not to tell Kelsey, who would have spilled the beans after looking at her for a second,) “she arrived Christmas morning after she had gone through her mother’s attic and found Susan's letters. She returned to us, realizing she was next. This is fascinating because—Garrett died _months_ ago in _Chicago_. She was in Louisiana.”

He bounced on the heels of his feet, hiding his hands behind his back, “this guy lives in Illinois. Either he was looking into ways of going down to Louisiana, but,” he clicked his tongue, “our particular early winter weather had been cruel on a couple of farms up north and forced many farmers, if not all to stay indoors. _Ranches_.”

He recalled driving in a blizzard with Ryan asleep on the passenger seat. In _September_.

“Couldn’t the killer find her anyway?” Devon wondered, her stance relaxed and she leant on her chair. Kelsey turned to her, as if she was vigilant towards her partner, “cover his tracks? A little side-track wouldn’t have stopped him—”

Shane’s smile widened, seeing as Devon’s expression perked, jumped upright and looked at Ryan. “He didn't know there was somebody else _to_ kill.”

“We think he was looking for anything that would incriminate him at Garrett's. We don't know if anything _was_ taken, thanks to Katie,” Ryan tried to sound reassuring and smiled when Katie saluted him, “but we are certainly confident that even if the killer knew about Lydia back in September, he couldn’t have been able to identify her.”

“Or else she would have been killed,” Kelsey mused, sitting back down on her designated chair, “what happened? Why bring this up?”

Shane shared a look with Ryan, seeing as his boyfriend had been confident going into this case with a different perspective and later knocked their skulls together with a collective _it was right in our faces the entire time_. 

Lydia returned to Chicago before the sun rose. She brought one suitcase with her, which she had recklessly hurled her clothes into in her drunken stupor before her mother drove her to the airport, worried over her daughter’s safety. She recalled that when she knocked on Eugene Yang’s door, she begged for protection over some letters she had found.

Shane was asleep at the time, woken up by a knock on Ryan’s hotel room door. He unwrapped Ryan’s arms around him and stood half-naked in front of the officer that claimed it was urgent for him to see Eugene. He had prepared for events like these, knowing that they happened when he least expected. Ten minutes after 8 A.M, he wrote a note for Ryan, kissed his cheek, and tucked him in before leaving. 

He met Lydia again for the first time after Garrett’s funeral, her own face sunken and shaken to the core. She hugged him when she saw him, wearing her a red dress and heels to match, a coat draped over her shoulders with a scarf around her neck. She was almost unrecognizable, save for her tan complexion and Shane did not let go of her even after she had a good cry.

“Miss Nyugen is in witness protection, she brought these,” Shane tossed the opened envelopes on the table, all of them had been opened but degraded with their time stuffed in a box in Lydia’s old house. “Yesterday, we urgently sent down Ryan’s old _buddies_ , the calligraphy specialists, and they matched with Susan’s handwriting. All of these letters were written for Lydia from Susan, starting in 1985.”

Kelsey reached for a envelope, opening the yellow piece of crumpled paper. Her eyes skimmed through the words and occasionally titled the paper for others to read. Lydia wasn’t lying when she admitted to being intoxicated and remorseful over what happened to her cousin. She found and read the letters to connect with her deceased family member, though, having done so, she filled in loopholes in Shane’s story.

“Susan Parker wrote about her rumored affair with Daniel Amari, ensured they were only friends,” Shane denoted as his colleagues swarmed around the letters, “we don’t care if that’s true or not. What is true, is that the Roseberry girls across the way, _she wrote_ , needed someone to mow their lawn. She suggested a nineteen year old boy named Austen, a farmer’s son that she hired—” he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, “we believe that hekilled the sisters, then Parker, Amari and Garrett to cover this tracks.”

“Holy shit, Shane!” Kelsey blurted out, looking at yet another of Susan’s letters, “are these real?”

“They are,” he gave a mirthless laugh, “ninety-nine percent convinced these are real letters from Parker. If it’s true, he saw the victims as pawns. He found pictures of them in their houses, from Amari in Parker’s and—Garrett in Amari’s. Maybe he killed in disillusionment that the family were after him. I don't know."

He grounded his jaw, wiping his nose to stop his eyes from welling up with tears that wouldn't aid Garrett in any way. He didn't have time to cry. Had he exhausted his emotions over the death of his friend, knowing that his killer had taunted Shane and his boyfriend and _tried_ to look for another person to get rid of.

He thought the string of killings had stopped, wiped his hands in satisfaction and chose to stay indoors for the rest of the winter.

What a fucking idiot.

“Shane?” Ryan’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts, he looked down at him, gracing the side of Ryan’s hat and slung an arm over his shoulder, “are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he kneaded Ryan’s muscular shoulder, leant down to press a kiss on the exposed hairline and for the first time in months told the truth about his mental state, “I’m all good.”

He hosted his arm over Ryan's shoulder, and held him close to his side. Shane looked at his coworkers, content with Ryan's warmth radiating from him, “we're missing a few details. We don’t anything else other than his first name. We are not sure it could be an alias either. It's no demon but a real person—”

“ _With strange markings on his face and a tendency to bring up the devil every chance he got_ ,” Kelsey read a letter out-loud, “poor Susan. How the hell do we find this guy?”

“We’re going to start working _now_ ,” Shane said, slyly tickled Ryan’s waist to make him yap and writhe, before pulling away. “If word gets out that Lydia returned, he might go into hiding or try to find her. Every _Austen_ in Chicago **—** and I mean every single one, including missing persons **—** " Shane spelled out the suspects' name, as his team wrote it down, "male, eighteen to twenty-four. You know what to do.”

The room exploded with activity, field officers stood from their seats and began their search on the man they were looking for. As soon as everybody but Ryan had left the room, Shane heard him shuffle to the phone, rubbing his side as if Shane had done significant damage to his muscular stomach.

Tempted to tease further, he _actually_ looked at Ryan. 

Even after a day, Ryan’s mood appeared lighter, no longer had he lost sleep and his night terrors declined to day every couple of weeks. The swelling on his shoulder healed, as it would naturally do, better yet, his back did not show signs of picked scabs or reopened wounds. He won’t even mention that Ryan had stopped staring blankly at corners of vacant rooms or walls.

In the several months they had known each other, Shane caught distinct quirks from his boyfriend and new ones that he recently discovered. Ryan loved popcorn, he loved to interact with people and had no problem with reaching out to strangers _just_ to strike up a conversation or compliment them. Ryan would find him bothersome at times, but by the expression on his face, Shane knew he was holding back a laugh and broke into laughter whenever Shane looked at him. 

Ryan loved his dogs, he loved sports and his little brother. He was easily spooked, by bumps in the night or the darkness itself. 

Ryan loved L.A, he loved pie, he loved to eat and drink until his stomach couldn’t contain it anymore. 

Ryan kept his legitimate emotions a secret, never bringing up his anxiety until he snapped. Leaving him no choice but to break down to Shane in the late hours of the night, in tears admitting that he wants to go home to see his family. He loved his family more than anything in the world, he loved his job and helping people. He would constantly repeat that he wanted to go home, almost as if he were a broken record.

He never remembered any of it in the morning, no matter how many times Shane brought it up. 

Shane chewed on his bottom lip and plastered a smile on his face as he sat next to Ryan. As much as Shane wanted this case to end, whatever happens after will result in tearful goodbyes without discussing their future together.

Would they have one after this?

Ryan noticed him, he sat by the table, stood behind the bulletin board and the office's telephone in hand. He smiled at Shane, his teeth visible and wide eyes crinkled. He looked happy, though exhausted and Shane wanted nothing else but to lay him down, make sure he slept for the rest of the night. He couldn't move, his heart wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to walk to Ryan's side.

Ryan deserved to go home and to be with Curly, to be with his family and find a loving partner to _stay_ beside him. It appeared that Ryan wasn’t interested in asking Shane to go with him and Shane respected his wishes. From the beginning, he didn't want Ryan to tarnish his reputation, yet, after weeks of getting to know each other, it seemed like the press had already beat him to the punch.

Having him here lightened his view on life outside of homicide, a bubbly perspective he didn't expect back in July when he agreed to work with a _paranormal investigator_. The girls were right, Ryan changed his life and now, he didn't want him to leave. Shane wanted to go with him. But Ryan didn't.

“You good?” Shane asked gingerly instead of sharing his thoughts. He closed the door behind him, walked to the chair next to Ryan and sat down; he didn't want to look at the case anymore, burnout crept through his bones as he looked anywhere but the table.

“ _Me_?” Ryan fell back on his chair, “I’m fine. What about _you_? On a scale of one to ten,” scooting closer to Shane, Ryan lifted up two fingers and hovered them apart, “how normal are you right now?”

“About a seventeen,” Shane replied in a chiding tone and took Ryan’s hands in his, “Ryan, I have to ask you something.”

“ _Shane_ , not now. We have to get back to work,” Ryan groaned, the corners of his mouth quirked up when he pulled away and adjusted himself to face paperwork in front of him. Their coworkers had copies of Shane’s report, sure, but in no way did they consider organizing case files back in the labeled boxes. 

(“There’s no reason to,” Steven told him once, “we’ll just make a mess of it again and again.”

“That sounds like a euphemism,” Ryan squinted his eyes at Shane, “is there something you want to tell me, big guy?”)

The shock set in first, then Shane realized that Ryan _thought_ he was taunting him. “No, no, I’m being serious. It’s important.”

“Doesn’t matter how many times you ask me—”

“Ryan,” he urged sternly, pleased when Ryan halted and looked back at him. After a moment’s reflection and Ryan’s round eyes staring him down, his boyfriend’s features clouded with sympathy and he turned his body back to Shane.

“You serious?” He raised his eyebrows, studying Shane’s face meticulously as if to see any sign of rascality in him. Perhaps he couldn’t _see_ anything because Ryan’s approach suddenly changed to one of distress. “What’s wrong?”

To reassure him, Shane placed his hand on Ryan’s thigh, his fingers crawled to his knee and squeezed it, “when this is over… when... how—do you want to leave? I’d have to talk to Eugene and Kelsey about it, but we can arrange—” he prayed to himself that Ryan wouldn't agree, though his prayers wouldn't be answered, he knew Ryan would jump at the first opportunity, “you can go home anytime.”

Ryan went quiet, narrowing his eyes and sat there as if he wasn’t breathing. He frowned, his forehead creased as he thought about what to do. For a moment, Shane felt a bit of relief that Ryan looked hesitant of what he wanted to do but it all eroded into nothing when Ryan stared at him, without uncertainty in his voice: “I could stay until an arrest. I would rather leave before— _if_ there would be a trial. I’d—I’d testify, if you need me but—”

Just like that, as if a boulder had struck the balance in Shane’s heart, it shattered. He joked that he never had a heart (or in his line of work, didn't need one,) but as he physically felt almost as if he felt it burst, he sat there motionless and overlooked Ryan’s eyes on him.

He hated pauses between his words, but he was truly left with nothing to say.

“Okay,” he ended up uttering out eventually and hastily stood up from his chair, “I’ll go talk to Eugene—”

Ryan caught his arm, “hey, wait, wait, don’t leave. Shane... I—I have to go home and Curly is—”

“I get it baby, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. I want you to go.” Sometimes Shane wished he could be petty to Ryan, throw out his bitter feelings out the window and urge him to reconsider. But he couldn't. His love for his partner had bloomed, and he couldn't imagine being an asshole to him. 

He felt guilty for acting like a child, losing what dignity he has left and throwing a tantrum over his boyfriend wanting to go _home_. Shane shrugged his shoulder, his eyes drifted to his shoes, why can't he tell him the truth? Why couldn't he just _tell_ him how he felt? “We can write letters and call. It’s not like we won’t see each other, L.A is a trip away. I really, want you to go.”

That’s not true.

You want him to be happy.

_But he isn’t happy with me_.

He forced a smile, his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. But when his boyfriend didn't meet his eyes, Shane’s jaw clenched as the color drained from his face. Now, he was positive he would cry.

He had to break up with him before he left to save them the hurt. Shane patted Ryan’s back twice, mumbling something about Eugene before leaving the room. 

…

“What time is it?”

Steven's voice awoke him, and without realizing he had closed his eyes, Ryan jolted upright, twitched on the couch he sat on. He couldn't move, his arm dull with a familiar weight resting on it. Ryan let out a yawn, hiding his face into Shane’s notepad. He tried to open his eyes wider, though, his fatigue restricted what he could see. Adjusting his glasses, Ryan peered at Shane. 

His boyfriend slept on his side, Ryan's shoulder as his pillow and held the crook of his arm. Shane curled his body as much as he could, though his limbs fell onto the side of the couch. He did not waver when Ryan's chin scraped the side of his head on accident, neither when Ryan took his forearm and held his watch as close to his eyes as possible.

“Five,” he breathed, and did a double-take because he wasn't convinced he had been at the office for over twenty hours, “five in the morning.”

He let go of Shane’s limp forearm, finally letting his boyfriend have a couple of more snoozes during his caffeine-induced nap. He threaded a hand through Shane's hair, his hair wavy, now draped over his nape and Ryan was tempted to collect as much as he could into a ponytail, “go home Steven, get some shut-eye. We won’t be getting any calls until Devon gets here anyway.”

“It’s like you read my mind, I’m going to sleep in Andrew’s office,” Steven babbled, also equally drained and slowly tore himself from the chair he sat in. He took his bag, in the quiet state of the office and Shane’s snoring, he looked back to Ryan and shared a look, “are you going to be okay?”

Ryan hummed, gesticulating to Steven that it _was_ okay. 

“Yeah,” Ryan yawned again, his hand on Shane's warm forehead, “we’ll be fine. Gonna wake him up soon.”

Shane looked uncomfortable but his height was a disadvantage to the couch they had. The man didn't fit well, his limbs hung as he slept and most, if not all, woke up with an aching back. Rather, Shane found it best to sleep with wrapped into his own heat, spine abnormally coiled and head sagged on either Ryan or the sofa rest. At first Ryan thought he was goofing around before he heard a snore not a minute later.

Steven appeared doubtful, gaped at the couple, turned around and walked out the door. Maybe it was the fact Ryan was sleepy, or—that Shane Madej’s big ol’ noggin was resting on his shoulder. He stared as Steven disappeared from view, actively locking them both inside.

Ryan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before resting it back on Shane’s messy hair. All night, they had concentrated on identifying their first suspect. At the time, Ryan thought it would be easy to find the man until Shane sat him down and told him, under no circumstances, should any of this information regarding their person of interest leak into the public.

Thus, telephones were out of the question. At least, Shane wrote down possible suspects for him to look into for the rest of the night. They met a few farmland owners, none of which had a son or children at all. They interviewed their close family without any leads and all plausible adult men with the alias 'Austen' led them nowhere. After two days of looking through yellow pages and records, their morale lessened and they feared the worst: they would never find them.

That meant Ryan will be sent home and every day of his life, he would have to be watchful for anyone or _anything._ Gradually embracing isolation; he’d have to live a sheltered life, but in no circumstance visit his family or friends. As if they never knew a Ryan Bergara. He'd be presumed ostracized by them. No longer return to the way he had lived all these years.

Heh, it wouldn’t matter. Curly started packing already, stuffing their antiques in boxes and going around the community to inform them that they’re moving. 

Jake had left home, thinking of moving into an apartment near his campus with roommates. And hell, maybe his parents would change too; his mother would want to live closer to Redondo Beach and his father had been eager to open another dental office—and because Ryan loved them, they'd never see their eldest son again.

He swallowed, he fought back tears, sniffed and ducked his head. Shane squirmed, pressing his head closer to Ryan's collarbone and Ryan couldn't stop himself from pressing a kiss on Shane’s head—Shane who was most affected in all of this. If he decided to close the case, Shane would recover and get back to his life, though the press would scrutinize him for surrendering and without his boyfriend—who had to leave for his own protection—they’d be inhumane.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Ryan began to dig deeper in the case, or as much as he could with the evidence they already had. Repeatedly listening to playback audio of interviews and read written reports to find any inconsistencies missed. He had persuaded his team (mostly Shane) for a trip to the public library and read as many books as he could rent. Nothing came out of those arduous hours.

He must have bit more than he could chew, and on his second listen, he began to lose hope that nothing could be done.

There was nothing he could do but listen.

He rested his hand on Shane’s head, holding him close and dug through the next set of interviews. They no longer were organized alphabetically and found himself unfazed to see Aria’s name pop up. The cassette had been labeled with a dark-green sticker and in marker was her name, along with the date she was interviewed. He remembered the day he went to see her for the first time with Shane—their interrogation lasted less than an hour, and when the audio recorder had run out of battery, Shane was convinced that she wasn't their suspect.

Routinely, he shoved the cassette inside the tape recorder, pressed play and inclined his head towards Shane. He listened meticulously, his voice with Shane’s mixed together, their questions fluent and she answered with ease. She had no issue to their questions and gladly let herself freely give out information. 

* * *

**ARIA INTERROGATION (UNOFFICIAL. See: Devon Joralmon)**

**DATE: SEPT. 1988**

**LENGTH: 00:34:50**

"Alright," Shane pulled out a chair, its legs scraped to the floor noisily that Ryan was sure he had done it on purpose. He wanted to grill him about it because _he_ was supposed to be 'bad cop' here. When he imagined himself in a _Shoot To Kill_ scenario, Shane spoke and Ryan shook his head because Jake hated that movie.

("How the hell did your brother hate a classic?" Shane had blathered when Ryan told him months later, "little Jake? Nah, I don't believe you."

"He fell asleep twenty minutes in," Ryan did not correct Shane's _it's a classic_! as Ryan and his brother watched the _remake_ when it was released earlier this year.

"God," Shane groaned, tossing his head back, "kids these days.")

Ryan watched as Shane fiddled with the audio recorder; he had no qualms of teasing him because he _knew_ what it was like. But to not bring any spare tapes was beyond him—maybe Shane wasn't suspecting Aria from the start? Judging by appearances? Was that the type of detective Shane was? Ryan wasn't sure, but he blew out his cheeks and held in a laugh when Shane cursed under his breath.

The minute the audio recorder lit up, Shane tossed it on the table and turned to Aria. "For the sake of this unofficial interrogation, state your name and address."

Aria did not hesitate, and she _did_ laugh at Shane's inability to handle technology. He ignored her laugh, his expression impassive, yet amiable as he was polite enough to not yell at her.

_Like in Shoot To Kill_ , Ryan's mind titillated.

"For reference," Shane spoke after a minute, he turned to the photograph of the twins' necklaces from Ryan's possession, "detective Madej showing the interviewee forensic evidence from the Roseberry case EM-045, photograph of the pendant found in the Roseberry home. Aria, please reinstate how you obtained these necklaces."

* * *

Ryan listened for ten minutes, the continuous back and forth between Aria and Shane. He had listened to this interview many times before—almost to the point of memorizing every question, and Aria's straightforward answer. His eyes began to droop as he listened, his headphones slid off his head a bit, only for Aria's strong accent to echo into his right ear. 

She was investigated months ago, her alibi was tight-shut and her statement never changed. With her answers consistent, they ruled her out as a perpetrator or an accomplice. 

He was exhausted, he couldn't concentrate anymore until Shane's voice resounded through the recording. His soothing voice, low-pitch, and ten times more serious than it was now when Ryan would speak to him brought a smile to Ryan's face. The corners of his mouth twitched and he opened his eyes somewhat, inclined his head in Shane's hair and listened.

He will not fail him. 

* * *

“You think you've come in contact with the killer?”

“Maybe not the suspect,” she had laughed, unnerved by Shane's apathy, she folded her hands in her lap and went on, “we don’t know who they are. I wish that I had it written down, I truly do. But I sold the necklaces before I got a warrant to sell used equipment—before I began to I'D customers... four years ago.” 

“Who are your customers? The majority?” Shane stirred, he relocated the audio recorder closer to her, and she did not seem to protest. She thought for a moment, and Ryan would forget what she had replied with, as soon as she had, his trepidation returned tenfold and wanted nothing more to leave.

“Oh, farmers. I get my fruits and vegetables from them in exchange for tools at a cheaper price. All their information written down as policy. I haven’t gotten anyone to buy hardware tools since late August… what was it? Er, a scythe? The boy's father had machinery for cultivation on their land in Mettawa. Yet, his father insisted, that's what he told me."

* * *

Almost in the midst of dozing off, Ryan’s eyes blinked open, hearing as Shane changed to a few questions regarding the shop itself when he gaped, almost hurled his boyfriend off the sofa and peered at the tape recorder in his hands with rounded eyes.

Swiftly, he pressed the rewind button, listening word-by-word the conversation between Aria and Shane. He did this three times when his trembling hands clutched Shane's shoulder, “Shane, _Shane_.”

How the hell could they have missed it?

The tools. The fucking tools. 

“ _Shane_ ,” Ryan called again, and shook his drowsy boyfriend. He wanted him to wake up because _how did he forget_? He had been jittery during Aria's interrogation, he knew that, but never did he once think to sense another _human-being_ 's emotions. Not until Shane. “Wake up, Shane!”

He hated being in Aria’s shop—due to his incapability to go near the tools (and other presumed haunted antiques) unless he compelled himself to. He didn't feel scared or angry, he felt relief _every time_. Amari was killed in August—what are the chances the culprit's name was written down at Pendulum right now?

“W—what? Whoa, _Ryan_ , what?” 

Shane’s groggy voice blended with the recording, his eyes squinting, almost glowered at being rattled awake. He stared at Ryan, scrunched up his face when Ryan didn't answer him.

“Listen,” Ryan demanded, rewinding to the beginning of the interrogation. Their voices echoed in the room and Shane’s ragged expression dawned with recognition, his hand covering his mouth and to his temple. As soon as their conversation ended, Ryan let the interview play, “did you see that list?”

“I didn't,” Shane muttered out, “did you?”

Knowing the answer, Shane rose from his seat, grabbed Eugene’s car keys and Ryan’s hand, flung him out of the couch without question and out the door, not looking back.


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it :( The end of this fic!! :(
> 
> Time went by so fast and even then it felt like a lifetime to finish this story orz  
> I enjoyed every minute of it!!!!! And this is just the first chapter to be posted today, the epilogue will be posted shortly! 
> 
> Thank you all so so so so much for reading, for leaving kudos and comments and just giving my story a chance! I appreciate it very much! <3
> 
> _Translations at the end._
> 
> **WARNING:** graphic descriptions of murder (brief), mentions of self-harm, and relationship w/ a minor (mention).

**JANUARY 1989  
Chicago, Illinois**

**ROSEBERRY INTERROGATION TAKE TWO (CONFIDENTIAL. Refer To: Kelsey Darragh, Interviewer)**

**DATE: JAN. 1989**

**LENGTH: 05:42:59**   
  


Static distorted the video.

Great. The computer was flimsy at best; having endured hundreds of hits to the side of the monitor to get it to do its _job_. Though, it turned on immediately after the tape had arrived. Soon after the static began, the picture on the screen guided the scene.

A single chair across from a woman, busing herself with the documents she had brought in. The woman didn't look at the camera or had been fully in the frame, though, by the looks of her hair, it had been Kelsey. Kelsey sat patiently as the recording went on, as low quality as it got with a slight dark blue filter.

The recording was silent, nothing but her occasional flip of a page. It did not take longer than a couple of minutes before the sound of the door interrupted Kelsey. She looked up, not standing to introduce herself but instead casually gave the newcomers a glance before looking back at her paperwork.

“Sit him down,” she said, “close the door.”

The officers under her wing followed her orders and promptly shoved a young man into the chair she had been facing. The man in question did not look up, his head tucked into his chest and hair unkempt. He wore a white tank top, covered in grime and dirt, his own arms lanky and void of muscle. 

When he had been arrested, he had been starved and dehydrated beyond belief. Spouting nonsense under his breath as he was told his rights, though, he knew exactly what he was going in for. Days later, he came to his senses and panicked, ultimately incriminating himself by asking if he was in for Mary and Isabelle.

For which he was.

“Is that correct?” Kelsey’s voice rang through the recording, “Austen, that’s your name, you’re nineteen years old and live with your father, at 52 Basim Lane,” Kelsey paused, from the angle of the camera, she squinted her eyes, "Mettawa, Illinois."

Austen nodded his head, the camera couldn’t do much but catch a glimpse of the pentagram on his left cheek. The man had engraved his skin for weeks now, some faded as ink would, though, some had been carved by a hand knife. 

“Case four-three-one hundred and six, of 1988,” Kelsey spoke, softly wording out what she had previously had written, “Mary and Isabelle Roseberry. Could you describe what you’ve done to the camera here. In detail this time,” she pointed behind her with her pen, again, not looking from her own documents.

Austen, lost, finally turned his meek head towards the camera. From the low quality alone, the recording did not do justice to his appearance, the man had tattooed sigils across his arms that's never seen before. Familiar to those at Amari’s, he gulped and introduced himself, “I killed Mary and Isabelle Roseberry in July.”

He grew silent, believing that it had been enough for Kelsey.

She stopped writing, “can you tell me what happened that night? Tell me everything you told me before.”

It wasn’t a question and Austen faced her, his cuffed hands clenched into fists before moving them away from the table. They twitched, and as he had been used to doing, tried to reach for his shoulder. When the handcuffs restricted him, he leant back and told his story.

* * *

**JULY 1988**

**TIME: 2:40 A.M**

Isabelle was screaming when Mary came downstairs. Her sister had been trying to fight back but without avail before her screams stopped. It didn't make any sense but Mary ran towards her twin sister, cowering from her attacker and trying to revive her. 

She knew the things she wrote about him were mean but how could he do this to her? Isabelle was nice to him but who knows what she truly thought of him? Did she really love him? Was she lying when he asked her if she wanted to marry him? Who knows. 

His anger bubbled over time, seeing as Isabelle had welcomed him with open arms into her home. She mentioned her parents once in a while when she wasn’t out—when they spent hours talking instead of doing their chores. Mary would get mad about it but she had to get over it sometime.

She got really angry at him a few weeks ago.

If he were to see her in the afterlife—right before heading to the path that would fit him—she’d yell profanities at him again and guilt him from ever loving her sister. Isabelle never loved him though, it was all written down. Words of anger and disgust aimed at him in silly pieces of paper, he read them when they weren’t looking and decided to end their lives instead of quitting.

Mary didn't believe him when he talked or when he wanted to be a part of the family. Susan was nicer than Mary ever was, why couldn’t she have been the same? Was it something he was doing? 

He did not move as Mary sobbed, he did not want to kill her, he swears, but she was so angry. 

* * *

“How did you—what led you to write on the kitchen walls?”

“I had goats at my farm,” Austen simply stated, he did not elaborate, and Kelsey's eyes narrowed, evidently ticked off that he didn't. She did not speak though, nor did she ask again, as expected, he went on another tangent, “...I loved her but she didn't seem to love me because of her sister. I was trying to make her see that I was good.”

"Austen," she stopped him, "she was underage, Austen. That is a criminal offense. Do you understand? You stalked her for months—please, describe in your words what happened that night."

The man in the recording had vacant eyes, unweary and refusing to blink. For a moment, you’d see glistening tears fall from them, coating his cheeks, “I was good, I was good—”

…

“Madej?”

Pressing a button on the keyboard in front of him, Shane unclenched his jaw and bit his bottom lip. He rubbed his eye with his index finger before turning around, “yeah, what is it?”

Devon stood in front of him, confusedly staring down at him with her eyebrow raised. She fidgeted, before her eyes caught the sight of the computer in front of him. “Why are you watching this?”

“I hoped it would match the written confession,” Shane admitted, turned his back to her for a second. He had paused it right when he knew their assailant would go to another thirty minute rant about the sisters, “also I couldn’t bear to watch until now—hey, are you okay?”

“Shane, you know what day it is right?” She exhaled and as she set down another set of folders on his desk, she spoke: “Ryan is ready to leave, I advise you to take him to the airport before ten.”

“He is?” Shane rose from his seat, ejecting the tape inserted in the computer before gathering the rest of his items. “Swear that he would take longer. How long has he been waiting?”

Devon gave him another look, one of bewilderment but said nothing. It was right of her to not comment on Shane’s incompetence or he’d tear up again. He knew that he had his boyfriend to pack his things before they left, and to distract him, he decided to watch the worst recording of his life. 

His day went on like it usually would. He woke up with Ryan beside him, stirring him away from sleepy-land and told him that he’d take him to the office for one last hurrah. His coworkers didn't think it was the best idea to send Ryan away right after he packed his things in their meeting room but it was better off than having a farewell party at the airport.

Weeks after the holidays ended, their killer had been found secluded north of Chicago, right in his father's ranch. He lived in the shed, as decided by his own volition and took care of the animals. Well, Shane had a different vision of taking care of farm animals. 

Evidence was found, from identical scrap metal and junk all around. Keys to an unknown car, a scythe and bleached buckets filled with water. The man had a scheme to get away with murder of five human beings and two farm animals, and Shane was happy enough to bring him in as their first and number one suspect.

The confession happened over days of waiting for him to _speak_ to somebody. Their suspect's guilt consumed him, he wrote in odd chicken scratch, and extended over twenty pages of utmost detail. It had become unbearable to read and the team decided to try filming his confession again after his first interrogation consisted of three hours of silence. 

Turns out, he was telling the truth.

His frustration and alleged obsession for the victim turned into rage, sending him into a frenzy of satanic belief and to cover his tracks, he had to dig into people’s lives. He almost got away with it too if Shane never considered to bat an eye to his signature and write it off as distraction tactics. 

He did not fight, nor did he threaten Shane, his friends or his boyfriend. He did confess to never wanting to turn his weapon at Ryan or Shane—even if he had tried, a bullet would have struck _him_ before he could move an _inch_. Shane would have made damn sure.

Immediately after the arrest, Ryan Bergara had been released from his contract and thus, to return to California. 

They did not argue about it, though the silent treatment began and it threw Shane off. Shane went on with his work days, now as a culprit had been publicized and interrogated, he had evidence to send out to charge him and countless paperwork to fill out. Ryan had packed his bags during all of this, taking a few days for the media to back off.

Seeing as journalists and reporters began to toss away their notepads and cameras, Ryan walked out of the hotel room on his own and told Kelsey that he was ready to leave. 

Caught up in his thoughts, he flinched when Devon passed him Ryan's boarding information, “his flight, gate twelve, an officer will escort him until he's ready to board,” Devon went on, she had been rambling on during their walk back to the meeting room. Shane never minded her, he admired her for organizing Ryan’s departure with ease. Still, hearing about it tore him to shreds and he mentally noted to send her a present for walking slower than usual. 

“He’ll be taken care of. Shane,” Devon surveyed the hallways, her shoes resounded as they walked together before stopping completely. 

Confused, Shane turned on his heel and lowered his head, “yeah?”

The corners of her mouth twitched and she gave him a soft smile, she tucked a strand of her _now_ long hair behind her ear. He wanted to compliment her as it suit her but she beat him to it, “Eugene wants you to drop him off and return within an hour. You are not allowed to send him out, do you understand?”

Shane gave her a half shrug, and dismissed his order with a wave of his hand, “I know, I know. I’ll say goodbye to him and—”

“I’m serious,” he was about to walk away, because, hell, he didn't want to break character in front of people he saw every day when her hand reached for his forearm to stop him. She squeezed it, “I know this hurts and I know,” she whispered, “I know that you don’t want this. But please, _please_ , do not break his heart or yours right now.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” he retorted, “I wasn’t going to go through with it.”

“Whether you _were_ or not,” Devon begged, “do not go anywhere he can’t follow.”

Shane clenched his teeth, blinking away the tears gathering in his eyes when Devon let go of his forearm and reached for his shoulder blade. She was short, but her comfort knew no limit and she patted away the wrinkles of his jacket. “You have to shave eventually, you’re going to be consumed by hair.”

“Ryan pretends to hate the mustache,” Shane defended himself, refusing to let his voice crack, “I’ll shave tomorrow.”

Devon huffed in response, laughing to herself before patting his shoulder again. “I’ll let you go, I’ve already said my goodbyes to him. Besides,” she wrinkled her nose, “I have a meeting at ten.”

“Ah,” swallowing the lump in his throat, he amused her by offering a pity smile to which she did not enjoy. “Once a case is over,” he clicked his tongue, “gotta find another, huh?”

Devon shook her head, “take care of yourself, Madej. I’ll see you later.”

Something told him that he would see her soon. When Ryan had been busy before, Shane found his friends as his support, and Devon had seen him weep more days than one. He straightened his back, rubbed his hands over his face and walked into the hallway. He heard Steven first, his voice light and playful as he spoke with the second party in the room. 

Ryan’s laugh boomed after Steven, fading into the walls and into a set of giggles when Shane decided to peak his head in the open doorway. Steven stood across from Ryan, a roll of tape around his wrist and reading out plastic bags filled with carbon copies of photographs from the homicide case. Storing them away for future trials, and to keep Ryan busy, he guessed.

He cleared his throat, knocking on the side of the doorway as the light flickered. Ryan turned to him, his smile striking him and placed the evidence bags back into the box on the table.

“Hey man,” Ryan quipped, “took you long enough. We had a couple of laughs that you missed already. What a shame.”

Shane shrugged, shoving his hands into his pant pockets, “Eugene put me to work, can you believe that? A little birdie told me you were ready to head out.”

Ryan’s eyes rounded then, his smile faded as his expression went blank. As if the lightbulb inside his head lit up, he straightened up, “oh! Oh shit, is it time? Are we late?”

“Not late,” Shane forced a smile, “you still got time. Don’t take too long though, I have to hijack a car and _that_ takes time.”

Ryan chuckled, his cheeks flushed as Steven’s head jerked upwards, befuddled: “w—wait, _what_.”

“Steven,” Ryan began, walking towards his backpack on the couch and towards his coworker. “Thanks for the farewell gift, bud, it means a lot.”

“Don’t worry about it, come here,” Steven, being the kind man he’s always been, took his eyes away from his work and opened his arms, greeting Ryan as his final goodbye. Ryan stepped into his embrace, tucked into his taller friend's side. Shane noticed his lips tremble for a split second, reluctant to choke up, and instead gazed heavenward. Shane's arm twitched, subconsciously bit back his instinct to comfort Ryan when Steven locked eyes with him, they communicated telepathically and when it came to Ryan, Steven understood. 

Steven ran a hand over Ryan's shoulders to soothe him, “call me man, don’t be a stranger. Tell Jake to focus on his studies.”

“I will,” Ryan murmured from Steven’s side, forcing himself to truly say his goodbyes before ending up next to Shane. All this time, Shane stared, wondering what it would have been if he didn't need to say his farewells. It was brief before Ryan shrugged his puffy jacket on, covering himself from Chicago’s winter as he waved to Steven. “Make sure you fix that light. You’re going to have to give up eventually.”

“Not to Andrew, never to Andrew,” Steven groused, jokingly with a sardonic expression written on his face, after a moment, he laughed to himself before going back to his work. A moment passed when Steven lifted his head and turned to them, “wait, _wait a minute_. What do you mean you’re going to _hijack_ a _car_?”

“Bye-bye Steve-y boy,” Shane pressed Ryan by his side and closed the meeting room’s door, and set a reminder to ignore Steven for the rest of the day. “You ready?”

Ryan swung his backpack over his shoulder and nodded, gesturing to lead the way out. Silly, Shane thought it to be, as the first time they had met, Shane escorted him out into the parking lot to send him down to investigate a crime scene. He didn't hide him, nor did he give him a jacket to protect him from the cold. 

Ryan had it all figured out before Shane could think about it and he concentrated on hijacking an older, slower car. The ride to the airport was quiet, a few laughs were shared between them but nothing followed after. Shane had run out of things to say to him and he felt as if he _did_ try to initiate conversation, he’d go against Eugene's orders and drive away together. _Rain Man_ , and Ryan could be Tom Cruise if he wanted to.

(If he said that out-loud, Ryan would agree, but would quip that Shane would be Cruise's girlfriend in that movie, and he'd say it'd make no sense since they're not going to Cincinnati.)

“Shane,” Ryan spoke at a red light, “are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Shane glanced at him, “yeah. I’m fine.”

“Oh okay,” from the corner of his eye, Ryan moved his arm over to the center of the car, his hand collided with the gear stick and left it hanging there. He didn't say anything else but the message was clear, and as the light turned green, Shane took Ryan’s hand effortlessly and intertwined it with his own. 

The rest of the ride was a test of endurance for Shane, his heart clenched whenever Ryan caressed his thumb with his own or when he kept it right within reach of the steering wheel, no matter how far he’d had to lean. Upon entering the line for departures at the airport, Ryan drew in a long breath and jolted upright. 

Shane had a moment to _think_ before he parked, letting go of Ryan’s hand and getting out of the car to help him with his luggage. Offering a friendly smile to the officer escorting Ryan inside, he handed Ryan his suitcase and stood awkwardly in front of him. The airport’s drop off area wasn’t crowded by departures, neither was it packed with people who dropped off their family members. 

Still, he felt walls closing in on him as time continued without him. His emotions kept underway until he felt a pounding in his head, the split of his heart telling him to _go, before you break up with him_ and _beg him to stay,_ compelled himself to avert his gaze and remember his training.

Within an hour.

“This is—this is as far as I’ll go,” Shane gestured with his chin at the patient officer, “she’ll escort you inside and make sure you’re safe. I have to return to work, Eugene orders.”

Ryan’s expression dulled, peering at the officer who waited for him by the entrance into the airport. “Oh, I—I see. Okay, then—then this is goodbye?”

“I guess it is,” Shane tried to smile, though, he must have not been strong enough to finally say it and instead found himself to reach for Ryan and embrace him. His arms wrapped around Ryan’s form, and closed his eyes tightly as he reciprocated. His face hidden within Ryan’s shoulder, his nose pressing into Ryan’s neck and he shook with sadness. 

“I’m—I'm going to m—miss you,” Shane choked out, Ryan’s hair covering most of his face as he cupped the back of Ryan's head, “I'll call you when you land.”

_I won't_. _I don't think I could._

“Okay big guy,” Ryan at least made the effort to sound reassuring, his own arms had been tightly gripping Shane’s waist, “I’m going to miss you too, you jerk.”

_I'm going to miss you more._

Laughing, Shane pressed a few kisses on the side of Ryan’s neck, pulling away from him to press another by his cheek and finally the corner of his mouth. 

_I hope you find one who loves you as much as I do._

A robotic male’s noise interrupted their moment briefly, announcing a few flights ready to board and Shane found it as a sign to let his boyfriend leave. Somehow, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him after telling him goodbye, so, he pressed a kiss on Ryan’s lips, grabbed his hand and gave him the strap of his bag. 

_It'd be impossible. Because I love you more than you'd ever know._

“You should go,” Shane stepped away, “be careful.”

_But I know you can do it. They better love you, take care of you and cherish you for life. I'm sorry._

Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded his head with a soft smile, and shoved his hand inside his own jacket pocket. He took out the bane of Shane’s existence—a pouch of herbal mix and sage oil—one that he had carried for months and extended his hand to him, “here.” 

Confused, Shane held the pouch of Limpia in his hand and opened his mouth to tell him that he had _one_ thanks to him when Ryan’s glossy eyes stopped him. A tear fell from his eyes when Ryan swung his backpack over his shoulder, “see,” he laughed, wiping his cheeks, “now I have to come back for it or Curly would be pissed for eternity. Until then, take care of yourself. I love you, Shane.”

“I love you, Ryan,” Shane murmured, the strength to keep himself from breaking down in Ryan's arms dwindled, squeezing the pouch and softening his expression as Ryan found the courage to finally step away, turning his heel and towards the officer waiting for him. She helped him, holding his bag for him as they walked inside, not once did Ryan look back.

Without thinking about it, Shane took a note from his book and didn't look back either as he drove away. 

…

Shane didn't get to _breathe_ as soon as he returned to the office. He parked the ‘stolen’ car, and walked in normally when an intern nearly bumped into him. He was young, fresh out of college with dewy eyes and a wide smile, and claimed that Eugene wanted to see him as soon as he arrived.

Knowing Eugene, he probably was _in_ his _actual_ office.

He knocked, with no avail but welcomed himself in anyway. Eugene’s officer never changed, almost untouched as the man himself rarely found himself to have free-time from his own duties. Sitting down, he leant his head backwards and closed his eyes, his long legs denied him any breathing room but he made it work anyway. 

He must have sat there for a half an hour when the door opened, Eugene walked inside with no surprise written upon his face to find Shane in one of his chairs. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Meditating,” Shane answered, “giving myself some time to process what happened to me in the last hour.”

“Right,” Eugene said in a dry tone, “it went okay?”

“Mhm. I dropped off Ryan in time, I believe that he is currently in an airplane to California.” Shane pondered what that was like for him—was he comfortable? Was he sleepy? That was possible, Ryan could sleep _anywhere_ and not wake up until they landed. Did he eat before they parted? God, he just hoped Ryan didn't eat something that would make him sick when he was thousands of feet above land.

“Shane, I hate to do this to you, I really do,” Eugene sighed, neither going over to his desk chair but leaning on the table by Shane, “we have a deadline. When you were out, a couple of judges called to discuss a preliminary hearing for our perpetrator. They’re thinking, without any motions in action currently, the final date to be around June. If that’s true, we need more forensic evidence to arrive before then. Have you finished watching the confession tape?”

Shane scratched his beard, shoulders slumping as he felt himself grow exhausted from listening to all the shit he has on his plate. “I am half an hour into the tape, I’ll finish before the day ends.” 

“See Steven later about following DNA evidence in New York, he’s traveling in a few days and we don’t want to take more trips than we need to,” Eugene went on, his hip bumping into an his cabinet and Shane’s mind inwardly traveled to Ryan’s astonished gaze back in archive—

“Because of all of this work on your shoulders, Impicciche is offering a federal position for you in DC.”

Shane squinted his eyes, turning his head at Eugene, “what?”

“I’m promoting you.”

Shane blinked, studying Eugene’s blank look and finally concluded that it was _not_ a joke to taunt him, “I’m not your employee.”

“Then she’s hiring you,” Eugene addressed, crossing his arms over his chest, “her department is offering full benefits, paid utilities, fuck, they’re even giving you a place to stay. Their position as—”

“No thanks,” Shane disrupted Eugene’s words politely, his voice was softer than usual, almost a murmur as he shook his head and stared at the wall in front of him. The idea of working for a federal department troubled him, it meant new deadlines and homicidal cases that went beyond his jurisdiction—it meant his family would barely have time to see him and he’d have to close all contact with the people he loved for months on end.

That included Ryan, if he wanted to keep him safe. 

It was never his dream to go as far as helping families find closure in their loved one’s sudden death. 

Besides, he wasn’t the right person to take the position, if you asked him, he wanted to be selfish for a moment and refuse. 

“I don’t think it's for me, boss,” he admitted, “that position should be for Ryan. He practically solved a near impossible case in four months time. Knowing him, he'd hate it, being away for so long.”

Eugene took in the sight of his freelance detective, and raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding. I _did_ offer a two-year internship position to him and he went on about _you_. Now _you_ are telling me, _you_ don’t want the job but _he_ should have it?” Eugene rubbed his forehead, “he wanted to help his roommate out, now that he's officially not renewing their lease when it expires later this year. Going their separate ways or what not.”

Shane’s forehead creased, “ _what_? Curly's moving? Separate—since _when_?”

Blank faced, Eugene tapped his finger on his desk, “you’re not serious.”

“I am,” Shane leant forward on the chair he sat on, “he's _moving_?”

Eugene looked heavenward, taking in a deep exhale and probably thought of Ryan’s incompetence of never asking for help from anyone. The world was carried on his shoulders and he knew that, the burden that he brought and took with him without one word uttered to Shane.

He couldn’t be surprised. But he still felt the ache of his heart within his chest.

Ryan had a plan in mind when he was offered the chance to go home. Even Shane knew from the beginning that he wanted to go back to normal—see his brother in college, settle down at his job at the antique shop with Curly and visit his parents every weekend. It was his routine, something he found comfort in for _years_ and never went out of reach from it.

Until he came here.

Until Shane tore that routine into pieces, brought him here and sent him back with trauma and the underlying belief that it will never be the way it was before.

And he didn't know.

“When did he tell you?”

“Not long ago,” Eugene, still holding his head backwards replied. He kept his eyes on the ceiling of his office before he made eye contact, a strand of his black hair fell into his right eye, “after Christmas? Anytime after you gave him the thumbs up to leave.”

“He never told me.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Eugene went on, “I don’t think he told me just to spite you. He came to me often, he talked to me for hours before heading out to you. After the third visit, I realized that it wasn’t to gain friendship points—he wanted to leave but he couldn’t. He never had a reason to—Shane,”

Eugene stepped away from his desk and stood by Shane’s side, he squeezed his shoulder, “it was almost like he couldn’t find the right words to say. Something— _something_ always held him back from asking me to nullify his contract and send him back home. He _never_ wanted to leave. But—I don't know why, weeks ago, he'd start to come up with excuses to leave. Ryan had a list of changes in his life he was dead set on heading back home to. I’m disappointed that he never realized that there was something else for him here too.”

Another squeeze of Shane’s shoulder, silent, _make sure you finish and head home to rest_ before Eugene left his side and closed the door behind him. Whatever else he could have said wouldn’t help anyone, he told him what he knew and his opinion wouldn’t change Shane—

_Why did I let him go?_

_No. Why did I let him go alone?_

Shane sat there, unmoving and glaring at the wall in front of him. The window beside it had the view of the outside, skyscrapers covered his view, small windows of offices and apartments and on occasion, he’d see a light flicker on. The longer he looked, his eyesight blurred with tears gathering in his eyes.

He imagined Ryan, cheerful and smiling, landing at LAX with his backpack filled with paranormal equipment and heavier shoulders. Hugging his family members as they greeted him, noting mentally to visit Jake when he’s free and began looking for a new apartment.

He imagined Ryan in tears.

Imagined him… Shane imagined him going back to his normal when in reality, Shane sent him back alone.

He covered his face, hanging his head and sobbed into his hands. He felt his tears run down his cheeks, his flushed skin hot to the touch as he cried harder. 

They were both alone.

...

Shane sat in the darkness surrounding him, the office had closed long ago as employees around him returned to their lives until the next day. After leaving Eugene’s office, Shane sat down with Steven and sent him off for his subsequent break before he left for New York, where D.N.A evidence would be handled by their sister location. 

He didn't see Devon again before closing time, assuming she’s had her own busy day in the field visiting possible jurors for the case in June. He wanted to see her though, having her presence or _anyone’s_ was a god sent right now. 

His finger pressed the rewind button, he stared at the quick motion of Kelsey’s form and the agitated man in front of her. Static filled the screen, lines of gray cut through the footage until he pressed play again. On the bottom of the screen read the date and time, alongside with a red mark of how long into the confession tape he was in.

Four hours and counting.

He listened to the silence in the confession tape, reaching a underwhelming session of the recording where nobody but Kelsey’s questions rang out every couple of minutes. Her patience wore thin a couple of times but she never lashed out on anybody she came in contact with. Confident that she’s the one who could handle a serial killer in front of her, she began to ask her questions again.

Ryan would have hated this.

He had been ordered to answer calls, review interrogation tapes and search _actual_ crime locations—but he would have hated this the most. Shane would have never wanted to subject him to anything like this, but Ryan would have insisted and his eyes would have never left the screen, no matter how tired he got, he would look for something unfamiliar.

Shane had done that for hours, in the crusty quality he was given, the suspect’s appearance was atrocious and he couldn’t stare long enough without thinking what this man had done to innocent bystanders. After speaking about the sisters' deaths, he remained quiet about the other three victims. 

Only crumbs were given to Kelsey before he would be sent off and begin the tedious process the following day. Hour five of the second confession tape described Parker’s and Amari’s deaths in detail. Amari’s car had been hidden at the barn his father owned, covered in dry blood, browned at the sight and nothing left out of place.

It was as they suspected.

* * *

**ROSEBERRY INTERROGATION TAKE TWO** **(CONFIDENTIAL. Refer To: Kelsey Darragh, Interviewer)**

**DATE: JAN. 1989**

**LENGTH: 05:42:59**

NOTES (!) (Kelsey, please corroborate when interrogating, -Devon): AS DESCRIBED, AUG. 1988, ROUGHLY BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M TO 6 P.M.

Suspect watched victim for two hours, parked in victim's workplace parking lot. Told from the victim's perspective to the perpetrator before victim was killed. 

...

Daniel Amari groaned, covering his mouth with his hand as he read the newspaper. 

Nothing about Susie, nothing about the case yet. 

As much as he wanted to be patient, there hadn’t been a single suspect arrested for in Susan Parker’s murder. She had left them a month ago, nothing but a robber or an estranged family member who may have killed her senselessly.

Just like those poor girls. 

He heard a knock on his office door and furrowed his eyebrows, looking at the clock above him marking the end of the workday. He placed the newspaper aside and continued his work. He would be left there for another hour or two before neatly packing his overtime workload away, heading home was what he wanted to do the most.

He crossed the parking lot, his keys jangled between his fingers when he felt eyes on him, he looked up to see a man waving at him, exclaiming his name as if he were an old friend. He looked familiar, possibly from Susan's family. He introduced himself as her old colleague and wanted to catch up with her grieving friends to talk about her for a planned memorial.

The memorial in her name was never planned or had existed. Neither was he a friend of hers. Daniel Amari was found dead in his home the night of, after a few drinks and laughs from a man he thought he trusted. He was humiliated into a makeshift ritual that never would work. 

“I didn't think they would ever work. A girl I dated told me that if I sacrifice an animal and use their bones—look,” Shane heard from the recording, watching as the suspect rustled in his chair, palms open, “I was trying to distract. Ryan Bergara may have thought I was into some witch shit—fuck if I know—”

Shane pressed the stop button, taking a deep breath and fiddled with the pen in his hand. He creased his forehead as he tried to calm himself down before crossing off another theory in his notepad. That’s the forth—leaving him to be _killed to hide his tracks. Found Garrett’s picture in Amari’s house after the murder, may have thought Susan told him about him._

He pressed play.

Kelsey listened to the man utter his apologies onto the table, he looked worse for wear, but Kelsey kept her temper, better than Shane ever could before asking, “where did you obtain the second murder weapon?”

“From a thrift store out of Chicago, Pendulum. I bought the scythe because the girl there sold my dad equipment or some shit. He bought some girly crap for my sisters but bitches never wore them so I took ‘em. He beat the shit out of me when I bought the scythe, said there wasn’t any need for one.”

Shane pursed his lips, mentally preparing himself for the following question, he scratched off another sentence from his notepad as he heard Kelsey’s scratchy voice and the rustle of a tight-knit plastic bag with the retrieved weapon inside: “Is this what you killed Garrett Wren and Daniel Amari with? For reference, the evidence shown is from Amari's case, EN-113, a scythe, an agricultural tool used to mow crops.”

Another try at his shoulder, “yeah. Killed the second guy with the—with the fuckin' handle.”

Gritting his teeth, Shane’s eyes focused on the words written before him, feeling lightheaded than before but remained quiet. 

“How long did it take to commit Wren's murder?”

Another moment of silence, “I don’t know? I blacked out but I heard sirens and booked it out of there.”

“About the message you left,” Kelsey continued, “was it to taunt detective Shane Madej? Or to distract him?”

Nothing was heard in the confession tape, the silence grew but Shane didn't have the energy to lift his head up to see if _he_ was complying with Kelsey or not. She repeated the question and Shane wished that it had been a demon who had done this, a supernatural entity that would be out of their jurisdiction before he heard what he knew:

“I wanted people to hate Shane Madej—didn’t he blame a mom for killin' her own kid before?" The culprit on the recording spread out his cuffed hands and shrugged as if he were discussing Sunday dinner. "Easier to blame him, don’ you think?”

Pressing the stop button again, Shane sighed, crossing out the last of his list and left _shift_ _blame on me._

He nibbled on his lip, feeling his hair fall back into his face and his beard undoubtedly itchier than before. He stopped himself from acting up—he never liked shooting a gun at anyone and this guy was being held minutes away from him, he couldn’t do much in his position but he was _close_.

Shane nearly tore at his hair when he stared at his notepad, the list stared back at him as if to mock him and he decided to take a break and go home to rest. He should move out sometime too, god knows the backlash of this case would follow Jen eventually. Maybe he could head out to—

He stared at his notepad, narrowed his eyes at the odd marking of his list as if someone had used this notepad as a flat surface to write. He traced the invisible dips of handwriting and concluded that it was probably a few pages before his. He flipped through them, disregarding Steven’s annotated drafts and his own notes from conferences when he finally landed on the page with the chicken scratch he hated to see. 

But god, was it a relief to see it.

Ryan’s handwriting could never be read from the start, but he often liked to doodle and write nonsense to himself during meetings. At first, it was a hindrance since Devon scolded him for wasting paper until Shane would hand him his notepad for him to express himself. Those pages were ultimately ripped out for him to write in—it seems that Shane forgot one.

* * *

**DECEMBER 1988  
**

**TIME: 4:49 A.M**

_Shane, I’m writing right now because you are sleeping on me and I was tired of listening to interviews all day. Steven is here too, he’s quieter than usual but I know it's because he’s thinking about heading out soon to follow you into snooze land._

_I don’t know if you’ll see this because I’ll probably rip it out but I need to talk to you and I wanted to talk to you for so long._

_Months ago, after Garrett’s death, I thought... I thought I was going insane. I kept thinking a deceased victim of the case I’m solving with you was following me around trying to leave clues for me or something. You worried about me during this, afraid of me hurting myself during the night and begged that I’d get help._

_It was because you love me and you didn't want to see that part of me._

_But you saw it anyway and you didn't leave._

_Recently that ghost left forever, after never having to speak to me or seem to acknowledge me. But, I realized that it wasn't real. It was my fear manifesting in front of me. I don't know how I did it, or why, but I guess it had to do with my trauma with Garrett's death. I must have manifested my emotions into a ghost._

_Sorry._ _I was scared that you couldn't see me for me or love me in the way that I love you._

_You do. I know that you do, because that fear is gone. I’m sorry I have to leave, I don’t want to. Curly and I, we finally came to an agreement, he'd let me have the apartment until the lease will end, but he'll be off to his grandmother's. So hey, I'll have the apartment to myself! Which is fine, I don't mind, even Jake offered me a job with him at the grocery store. And!!! Get this, baby, he's gotten a scholarship and invited me to see his campus._

_Mom and Dad are happy that I'll be home soon. I don't have the heart to tell them I don't know when that would be, I hope it'd be soon because they're excited to meet you one day, if you want._ _I really wished you'll come with me._

_I don’t want to leave you, I don’t know why I am. I guess if you love someone you have to let them go and let them be the best detective ever._

_Eugene told me about a federal position for you, he's waiting for the right time to tell you but I'm telling you now. Take it. Take it and give them hell Shane._

_I'm proud of you and_

* * *

Shane paused, gaping and realizing that the words ended there. He panicked, eyes rounded and flipped to the back of the page to see nothing but scribbles or doodles by Ryan. He was confused, why did it end there? Was he interrupted? Did he forget?

He forgot to rip this paper out but Shane was glad he hadn’t. Because he would have never known this unless Ryan came up to him to tell him. 

He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes trailing through Ryan’s letter over and over again before his tears began to fall into the crumbled page. He held it, _embraced_ the words that his boyfriend couldn’t say and he looked up at the confession tape on his computer screen, blinking away the bright screen and looked around him.

The dim lights, the silence of his sniffs and the presence of his boyfriend no longer there. 

It was so quiet here.

In a crime scene he’s once walked into five months ago or years ago, the bodies of innocent victims younger than himself and the blame targeted towards him, he knew the key to solving a case was to carry that burden and run headfirst into the media, screaming that justice was to be served in their faces and close himself off later.

He did it alone all this time. In the quiet of his own guilt and stress, it was always so quiet.

He couldn't stand it, and instead reached for the telephone, lifted it up to his ear and listened to the dial-up as he pulled out Kelsey Impicciche's number from his jacket pocket. Shane pressed the buttons meticulously, heard the phone ring, and without a single exhale, stared at Ryan's note.

He didn't feel like himself when his words come out of his mouth, Ryan's handwritten _I'm proud of you_ taunted him the second he responded: _Is your federal position still open_ _?_

Ryan’s laugh resounded in his ears as Impicciche answered him, turning off his computer and began to pack away his things. He should go home and rest, he had work to do in the morning.

* * *

**JANUARY 1989  
Los Angeles, California**

_“What do you want to do after this is all over?”_

_Ryan hummed, hardly listened to Shane's words as he blinked away his drowsiness. His eyes felt heavier, now that he hadn’t slept during the night but instead kept awake by his boyfriend. He shifted in bed, sheets draped over his bare chest as he held Shane’s hand in his, pressing his fingers to his boney fingers and held it up to block the sunlight from the window. “What’s that?”_

_“I said,” Ryan heard an impish voice from beside him, “what’s in store for the future Ber-goo-goo.”_

_“That’s a new one,” Shane’s hand never left its place atop of Ryan’s eyes, he squeezed the skin between his thumb and index finger lightly before shrugging. The weight of the blanket on him moved with him, shifting to look at Shane. He was holding himself up with his hand, elbow on the bed and staring downward at Ryan._

_He was partially naked, and though it was evident that he was, Ryan still recoiled from Shane's frigid thigh, intimately close to his groin. Shane did not move further and Ryan wanted to, he really did. He didn't get a chance to when Shane's free hand hovered over Ryan’s eyes to block him from the sunlight, but the light would find him eventually._

_“I don’t know,” Ryan answered truthfully, muttered into the crevice of his shoulder, “work? Continue working?”_

_“Ain’t that the truth,” Shane groaned, tossing his head back to the pillow and falling to his back. The hand above Ryan’s face lowered to Ryan’s nose, pinching it playfully, “I meant… Do you want kids? Marriage? Don’t you ever think of that?”_

_Ryan’s never seriously thought about it… since he’s fallen in love for the first time. But his emotions back then were primarily for the sake of pleasing others and never himself. He thought about his own children with lovers, casually bringing it up for his sake and theirs. After they’d separate, Ryan never thought about it as a single man._

_He thought that if it happened, it happened. And that stuck with him for years—there was no guide to how to live or be happy, and his belief was to let himself fall into someone’s arms and go with the flow._

_But._

_Thinking of a future with children. Children with Shane, traveling, celebrating holidays with family and teaching them how beautiful life can be._

_It ached more than he wanted to admit. He grew quiet, no longer acknowledging his boyfriend and stared into Mary Roseberry’s distant gaze, she would never flinch or react to him but he knew that she was more apparent now than ever._

_What would he do when this is all over?_

“...ir?”

Would he be a father? Would he work at Curly’s botanica forever?

“Sir?”

Surely not, people have to move on eventually. Would Ryan be left in the dust? What about Shane? What did he want? A family to look after or work to the bone until retirement?

“ _Sir_? Please wake up, we don’t want to escort you out of the plane. We’ve arrived in Los Angeles.”

Ryan sighed into the crook of his elbow, _he never answered Shane’s question_. Though, he began to stir awake before realizing that he wasn’t in bed with Shane but instead in a rather uncomfortable position. His lower back throbbed as he moved, realigned his spine and sat straight on his seat, squinting to his left at the flight attendant.

They stood by the empty aisle, a hand on the vacant seat beside Ryan and stared as Ryan grimaced at the dried drool on his chin. Their eyebrows furrowed, though not intrigued at yet another sleepy passenger. Ryan blinked at them, befuddled, “w—what?”

“We landed in Los Angeles,” the flight attendant echoed, tone impassive, “I have to ask you to leave.”

“Oh… _oh_ ,” Ryan wiped the corner of his mouth, his stance sitting upright as he forced himself to wake up. He ran a hand through his hair that had plastered itself on his clammy forehead. Without thinking about it, he reached for his backpack and stood up, “sorry, sorry. Yes, I’ll head out now.”

The flight attendant didn't look skeptical and left to assist other passengers like him. He busied himself to grab his things when the severity of the situation hit him as soon as he left the boarding area. He walked steadily, half-awake and mouth parched. He didn't think he would actually sleep, y'know, considering the euphoria of going home and seeing his family had been there most of the morning. It must have worn off. Walking through the corridor, he shifted the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and pulled the handle of his suitcase behind him. LAX looked the same, crowded with tourists returning from their holiday break or to warmer locations for the winter.

Los Angeles was warm enough, he reminded himself, shrugging off the puffy jacket he did not need in this type of weather. He paused outside of the boarding gate, looked out of the transparent windows with parked airplanes and palm trees in the distance, waving with the sky that showed zero gray clouds.

He was home.

Though his heart felt heavier than before. 

He walked over to the terminals, defusing the anxiety he felt in-between crowds with no _Kelsey_ in sight. It was odd to not have her or Shane around to escort him, but he was safe now, there was little interest in someone like him in L.A anyway. He sat on a blue bench outside of the food court, indulging in caffeine as he heard the intercom relay boarding flights. 

Nostalgia hit him, LAX was always a whirlwind of emotions because traveling was such a doozy in the first place. Curly was there to send him off before, but now he sat alone in the earsplitting commotion of the airport. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity until he stood, heading outside. 

His arrival in Los Angeles would be a surprise to his family and friends since he decided to keep it on the down-low (mostly because Curly would have socked him with an egg the _minute_ he'd see Ryan. His hair would have been a disaster if that _did_ happen. Not that it mattered anyway, it was unkept from his impromptu nap.)

He thought to head back to the apartment first, praying that Curly would be there to greet him as he was his key. He signaled for a taxi, standing on the side of arrivals before someone stopped for him. The sequence of events happened in a blur, he felt L.A’s cool weather on his skin, the salty breeze and the odd comparison of negative degree weather in Chicago. He tossed away his scarf and remained silent during the ride.

At one point he thought of the price of his ride there, before he realized that it didn't matter. He was home. He saw Route 101, paving the roads with old cars and tollways, stuck in a bit of traffic on their way to the suburbs of L.A. He saw even more palm trees, murals with faded acrylic colors on brick walls and skyscrapers hidden in the mid-day smog.

In the distance he saw the rocky terrain that hid behind the structures, and _not_ Lake Michigan. They drove away from the city and into neighboring roads, with local businesses and houses that Ryan knew. He grew up here but felt lonelier than before. Minutes before they arrived, Ryan felt a tear fall from his eye on its own, and turned his head towards the window.

He didn't make eye contact with the driver himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of telling him to turn back—to make the hour drive back to LAX, no matter the price because the farther he went, the emptier he felt.

Until he saw the forum he frequented, he sat upright and prepared himself to face Curly again. He paid reasonably, tipped extra because Ryan probably let out a few sobs here and there. He stood in front of the building he lived in, his luggage in hand as he turned the corner into the alleyway of his home.

He exhaled, holding up his fist and hovered it over the door when he paused. 

He couldn’t bring himself to knock.

“What am I doing?” Ryan murmured to himself, hanging his head into his white shirt, dropping his hand, “what the _hell_ am I doing.”

_I don’t belong here_ , he wanted to say, but if he did, it would be unfair to everyone that meticulously planned his trip back home, (mostly, Devon, who he would never want to disappoint.) He ignored the foul stench of the alleyway and pressed his back to the door, it rattled like it always did and the iron white grilles of their screen door dug into his back. He didn't care, and swore under his breath as his knees wobbled, and he unceremoniously fell to the floor. Ryan sat on the gritty concrete, resting his head on his propped up knees and listened to the sounds of his city.

The part of L.A he lived in was loud, cars honked and people gossiped as they walked in groups together. On occasion he’d heard a couple of sirens, but none of them stopped him from standing outside of his own _house_ and going inside.

He felt powerless, almost defeated that he’s come this far, but what for?

_What do you want to do after this is over_?

It crossed his mind then. Shane’s expression when he told him that he didn't know, when he joked and laughed. His hair when he refused to see a hair stylist, tucking it behind his ear or with a bandana that Ryan bought him. His eyes when they crinkled or when he cried in Ryan’s arms, trusting him without hesitation.

No word, no single _love you_ could explain Shane’s selfless actions towards him. Ryan went on his day with food brought to him, with a companion who never left his side no matter how difficult it became. A protective boyfriend that refused to let him be scrutinized under the public eye for something he believed in—someone that Ryan loved to the ends of this earth.

And he left him. For what?

_Shane_. _I want to be with you._

Ryan’s lip wobbled, holding his head upwards and trying his best not to make too much noise. He just wanted to cry, for now. 

_I want to start a family with you_. _I want to be selfish and bring you here to show you my home. I want to introduce you, I want everything_ —

_To know everything about you, to accept all of you, even secrets you cannot tell me. I want to protect you, love you and I just_ —

He cried into his knees, his black jeans torn since he bought them, his tears falling into his bare skin. He shook with agony at what he had lost because Shane would never feel the same way. He wouldn’t dare to leave everything for him, how could he?

“Ryan?”

As he wept, he heard his name called, the familiar voice of his roommate rang through the alleyway but his energy had run out to the point that he couldn’t look up anymore. Footsteps echoed through the sidewalk, he heard them sprint to his side, their shoes scraped onto the rocky surface until he felt hands on him. “Ryan? _Chiquito, what happened_?”

Curly squatted in front of Ryan, spotting his floral blouse from his knees as he gathered Ryan into his embrace and spoke in hurried Spanish. He spoke above Ryan's head, his hands ran a hand through Ryan's hair, and held him. Ryan felt Curly's rings, and he smelt of the herbal mix _—_ what was it, _samuhero_? _—_ enough to render Ryan speechless, another sob escaped him as Curly's cheek rested on his head. Ryan barely understood what he was saying, but he found his voice in reply, “I’m here.”

English left him as soon as Curly appeared to him, weakened to the point of speaking another language. Curly replied to him, he thinks, though, he didn't catch it until he felt his forehead bump with Curly's collarbone. He continued to cry until he winced, feeling the vexing throb of his pounding head. He blamed it on his cries until he felt something fall from his head onto his shoulder. Runny egg yolk soiled his t-shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin and he sat there, dazed that Curly had actually carried eggs with him. 

“How many of those do you have?” Ryan asked, face pressed on his friend’s clothing and his voice muffled, “why do you carry eggs with you.”

“I don’t,” Curly responded, patting Ryan’s back to soothe him and tossed away the remains of egg yolk, “I had a feeling that I would need one. I have another one here, just in case. I wasn’t going to let you invite anything into the house.”

_That’s fair_ , Ryan’s eyebrows twitched and he huffed a short laugh, “I missed you so much.”

Expecting a lecture, Ryan was taken aback to feel Curly squeeze him, pressing his own cheek to his forehead, disregarding the rapidly drying egg yolk on him and just... held him. Curly didn't say a word but Ryan knew what he wanted to say. 

_I’m sorry I let you go. If I knew this is how you’d return, I wouldn’t have let you_.

“It’s okay,” Ryan reassured, “I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

* * *

**ONE YEAR LATER**

**JANUARY 1990  
** **Los Angeles, California**

_Up next, today marks one year since private detective Shane Madej solved one of Illinois' most infamous homicide cases. Exclusive footage from the released confession tape and this morning’s press conference. Stay tuned for more details later tonight_ —

“ _Hermosito,_ _chiquito_ ,” a frolicked tone resounded from the adjacent room beside where he stood. Ryan turned his head to his best friend, blocking out the rest of the announcers in the television he watched. His eyebrow rose as he stopped sweeping, resting his body on the broomstick. “El amor de mi vida, Ryan _._.. did you finish your chores?”

He wasn't. _Not even close_! Not living with Curly meant that his chores wouldn’t ever end, and if Curly’s voice tuned to a higher pitch, Ryan knew that he wanted something. He smiled, stared at Curly’s face peaking through the doorway. His hair was shorter, his skin still a golden bronze with an outfit that clearly didn't read _I’m cleaning_.

“Nope,” Ryan replied with a smile, feeling like an unpaid maid. He lifted his bandana away from his sweaty forehead, “what now? Did you lose something?”

Curly’s smile widened, his eyes crinkled and he tilted his head, “ _I have to head down to the store, guapo._ We ran out of boxes and tape.”

“Ah,” Ryan stared, his eyes scanned Curly, but because he _was_ Curly, he embraced Ryan's gaze and grinned. He didn't need to ask, Ryan knew he was asking _do I look handsome or what?_ and Ryan would laugh and agree. His eyebrows rose, then gestured the broomstick at Curly, “your outfit says otherwise. Here, you should finish sweeping the kitchen or your grandma will pester you about it.”

Curly gasped, exaggerating what he already knew and side-stepped for Ryan to see all of him, _what about this blouse? Is it not too outlandish?_

_"How mean_. Using my own grandmother against me.”

Ryan’s smile never left, he shook the broomstick with his hand, “you’re not getting out of cleaning on a Saturday. Until you sweep the kitchen, you can have a couple of drinks.”

His friend didn't act, though Ryan knew that Gadiel and Maya owed Curly a night out for weeks now. And if he _had_ to stay and pack up alone, the least he could do was to put Curly to work. Curly pouted, but he snatched the broom before Ryan could tease further. 

Laughing aloud, Ryan turned his heel away from Curly’s frantic sweeping, observant that Ryan had already done most of his chore. He felt at ease; Curly had been going in and out of the apartment for almost a year now, gone for weeks or months until he returns to Ryan and then he'd be off again. And Ryan, would have all the chores to himself, which isn't _bad_ but he underestimated how important it was to have a roommate to split chores with him.

From experience, Curly’s share of housework weren't as laborious since he knew _how_ to actually clean a house in less than twenty minutes. Used to it, Ryan sat on a kitchen chair and propped his shoes up on the table.

Curly slapped his knee, gesturing him to not do so before sweeping the rest of the kitchen. Leaning back on the last of their rickety chairs, he turned back to the television. Antiques from Curly’s grandmother’s home decorated the kitchen in a way Ryan’s seen once before. 

Whenever she visited or stayed with them longer than a month or two, she’d bring items from her own house so she’d never feel homesick. And so she was, in the time Ryan was in Chicago, she had arrived with suitcases filled with at least half of her antiques. The apartment was littered with them, and they didn't mind, not really, neither of them would object either. While it wasn’t out of state, committing to the two-and-a-half hour drive to Curly’s childhood neighborhood was grueling enough to let her do what she wanted. 

Their apartment was homey with her around, her aura sanguine, a contrast to Ryan's pessimistic outlook, an aroma of homemade food and _toloache_. Her antiques brought the fierce side of their shop; a cloth hung over the television and the quality was still shitty that Ryan couldn’t make up faces. Though the audio was enough for him.

In the last couple of months, coverage over the Roseberry case skyrocketed all across the country. News of the suspect in custody, their family farm raided and extensive evidence from all crime scenes found was enough to subside public hysteria in Chicago. The department had announced and confirmed it all, he witnessed Devon in place of Steven, repeating what Shane Madej had predicted a year ago. 

Speaking of, Shane had been in isolation, again. And Ryan hasn't reached out since.

Shortly after leaving Chicago, Ryan had not called or had received a phone call from Shane. He couldn’t blame him for not reaching out after Ryan left, their separation had been fresh and Ryan’s first days back home were a blur between crying and sleeping. Curly knew that Ryan would be heartbroken, enough to prepare himself from never seeing Shane again, though he had dug himself into a hole that he couldn't climb out of alone. (At least Devon confirmed that Shane _was_ well, healthy and safe, and truly, that was enough for Ryan to overlook the hollow gap in his heart.)

Eugene did mention a federal position for Shane, and knowing him, he'd be either compelled to accept it to forget Ryan or refuse and move out. If not, with the way the media coverage was going and the upcoming trial in February, the department must have been so busy—Shane couldn't have been bothered, instead move on from his short-term nuisance.

Ryan remembered how arduous work had gotten when everyone waited for the next move with bated breaths, when all they had were blood stains and alleged cursed thrifted items. In the end, Aria was happy to help and she led them right to the culprit's home. As far as he knew, she stopped selling tools or other equipment since, instead focused on selling what she loved. With her shop as a marked important piece of evidence, citizens in Chicago reached out to her and her customers rocketed.

While their conversations were short, Ryan knew how happy she was to have helped. 

Lydia returned to Louisiana under protective custody, finally with reignited solace that the man she dated wouldn’t be forgotten. Just last week, she received her letter, a summoning to the approaching trial, which Ryan wasn't looking forward to receiving if he were to be summoned. And she kept in contact with Ryan—seemingly one of five friends he had made who had—and _demanded_ justice for her late boyfriend. Susan Parker, Daniel Amari and Garrett were conclusively victims of a man’s disillusioned act of erasing his tracks—neither of them had known the man further than first name basis.

Garrett didn't know him at all.

There was still a handful of information missing from the sisters, though the public viewed them as victims of domestic abuse from their parents and from an older man hired to care for their lawn. At a young age, they lost their lives minutes apart and now, they might be able to rest knowing that Shane never gave up to find a face to the monster they chased after.

“Anything new?”

“Nah,” Ryan sighed, listening to the information relayed to the public in the shortest way possible. He’s heard it before since it all began, and while his contract ended, he had been authorized to not speak out until a conviction was set. “I can’t tell you anything. Sorry.”

Still sweeping, Curly hummed in reply, “how are you holding up? Your shoulder giving you any trouble?”

Ryan shook his head, “I’m fine. It’s weird to see it all unfold after all this time,” he nibbled on the inside of his cheek, watching b-roll of the Roseberry house. The department released his name and occupation once, following with evidence that he brought forward, from satanic rituals and the incoherent sigils in Amari’s house. “It sounds insane, no wonder people thought I was bat-shit crazy.”

“Not everyone is a _boogara_ like you,” Curly quipped from behind him. Ryan switched the channel as he heard shuffling by the back door of their house, the squeak of their door frame caused him to turn his head over his shoulder.

“Done?”

“ _Yes, I’m done_ ,” Curly grumbled in Spanish, wiping his hands on their dining table cloth, “I’m leaving. God knows I missed Maya’s first round already.”

“Maybe even the second one,” Ryan mused pridefully, smug as Curly kissed the top of his head, tucking his messy hair into the bandana.

“Finish packing up before it gets dark,” Curly emphasized, he turned his heel from the doorway, pointing an elegant finger at him and Ryan was distracted with his ring. “Ryan, you didn't forget that your _brother_ is coming tomorrow morning to help you take your things to Arcadia?”

Ryan groaned, _he did_ , tossing his head back and rubbed his face with his hands. Still, he knew his chore had to be done before another egg would be cracked on him. He heard the front door close, opening his eyes to look heavenward and complained about moving out when they had _too many damn items_. 

He had to be careful too, or Curly would really have his head.

He stared at the soiled ceiling, unsure if the building itself would be demolished after they left or not. It wasn’t going to last another year at most, considering the many times they’ve ignored not having warm water or clean air. Ryan heard the sounds of a commercial playing, cheerfully advertising breakfast cereal and life insurance before he rose from his seat. 

Walking from the kitchen to their shop, he looked around the room. What was a collection of antiques and altars, now stashed away in boxes with their own labels and closed for storage in Curly’s childhood home. None of these items ever belonged to Ryan personally, if anything, the shop was a museum for the community that sought them out. 

A lot of their antiques had been returned to the families upon asking, but most of them remained if the family did not live in L.A anymore. Still, none of the items in this room would be heading out with Ryan in a couple of days. He stared at the dim room, stacked boxes near the door with the bell they didn't have the heart to bring down.

It'd be uninhabited three days from now.

In the silence, he blew out his cheeks and began to work. He was on his last set of bookshelf items to store, using the last of their boxes to organize books they’d donate to local libraries when he felt a shiver run through his back. He winced, arched his back and felt his upper body tremble but did not cease in what he was doing. 

Years of ignoring what gift he had, he began to slowly become aware that maybe Curly was always right. 

(“I’m always right,” Curly told him, “are you _stupid_? I’ve been telling you for years!”)

If a spirit resided there with him, (which was likely, as most of the antiques they had were blessed or rumored to welcome such entities in) that was fine. He took a deep breath, “if you’re in here with me, could you lend a hand?”

It was worth a shot and heard a muttered whisper before a _clink_ on the altar behind him. Ryan smiled, praised himself from getting an entity to help him move. Though it was all he got, he shrugged and grumbled under his breath: “didn't think moving would be so much work.” He studied a statue in his hand, a terrible rendition of a cactus, most likely a souvenir that we gifted from a younger customer. 

He discarded more of the items attentively, wrapped them in brown paper, stacked them sideways in the boxes until he had to stand and reach for higher shelves. He furrowed his eyebrows, knowing that it wasn’t to tease _him_ or Curly, but they must have run out of space. He was halfway into cleaning out the rest of the bookcase when he felt colder, shaking into himself and perplexed to hear the shop’s door bell ring.

Echoing into the emptiness in the shop, his shoulders sagged and hoped it was a regular who knew they were moving out. 

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he told them, grunting as soon as he lifted himself upwards to gather the last of the antiques. “There’s a sign outside, we’re moving and out of stock.”

“Is that so? Well, I regret not getting here sooner.”

Ryan halted, his entire posture froze as his brain repeated the words over and over again. No, it wasn’t _just_ the words. The voice was familiar, _he knew this voice_. The gravely one, teasing Ryan whenever he had the chance, or when he would murmur in Ryan's ear as they walked together, bent down to his height and spoke. He must be imagining it, since he didn't think to get a reaction at all. 

Not from him.

He gripped the book he held, the color drained from his face as he found the courage to face Shane Madej.

Even though they said _goodbye_ nearly a year ago, Ryan’s heart reached out for the person he missed the most. He dropped the book into the box, sprinted to the taller man and jumped into his arms. Shane caught him, oblivious that Ryan thought it to be a hallucination, taking the risk of slamming into the concrete.

Solid arms took him into his boyfriend's clothed chest, _his boyfriend who was here!_ and no words uttered between them as they embraced. It all came in a stream of memories, the first time they met, their talks into the night and confessions of love for each other. He couldn’t handle it, overwhelmed by emotion, Ryan let out a cry into Shane’s shoulder.

“Don’t cry, don't cry,” Shane muttered into his damp forehead, his hand cupped Ryan's neck, pressed his face into Ryan's shoulder. Ryan felt his hot breath, damp on his sweater but he didn't give a damn about it. “You’ll make _me_ cry.”

“Shane, _Shane,_ ” Ryan echoed, holding him tighter and his hands clenched Shane's jean jacket. His fingers clutched into the fabric until they ache, and Ryan truly didn't want to let him go in case he'd disappear. _Please, don't be my imagination. Don't do this to me_. He stood on his tip-toes, held onto Shane and contradicted his thoughts: “what the _hell are you doing here_?”

“I missed you. I missed you, so _damn_ _much_.” Shane answered easily, almost as if it was obvious to him why he was here. It hadn’t hit Ryan yet that Shane was _here_ , but he pulled away slightly, tilting his head upwards. No doubt about it, Shane’s hair was a tad longer, styled to the side but otherwise clean and well-rested. He looked well, at least he had hours locked in sleep before he got here. Speaking of, he was _here_. 

Ryan placed his hands on Shane's cheeks, stared at him as his boyfriend grinned and leant to Ryan's touch, inclined his head downwards for him. A strand of his hair fell over his eyes and Ryan reached for it, tucking it behind him. Shane's eyelashes fluttered with every second they looked at each other, and Ryan's hands fell to his shoulders.

Nothing about Shane hollered _frantically took the first flight here_ but something told him that Shane went against his own job to _get_ here. 

“Is Eugene mad?” Ryan wondered, patting Shane’s biceps before tracing his hands on his forearms, “how mad?”

“Composed,” Shane shrugged, hand on Ryan's back, “I don’t work there, baby. _But_ Impicciche is delighted. Sorry, I’m late.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ryan hugged him again, taking him into his arms and finally accepting that he wasn’t imagining a version of his boyfriend in front of him. He felt Shane’s beard on his bare skin, tickling on his shoulder when he hid his face in the crook of his neck, and wrapped his own arms around him. 

Speechless, Ryan just held him and finally, the beat of his heart, one that he thought he had left behind. Almost as if someone had been holding his end of the Newton’s Cradle and finally let it go, continuing the harmonic beat and he knew that he would never let it go silent again.

“I love you,” Ryan whispered, “I don’t know why or how you’re here. God, where have you been? Are you okay? Are you eating? Are you sleeping? _Don't give me that look_. Shane, what the _hell_ is wrong with you? Fuck, I _love_ you.”

Shane laughed, wobbly and sniffed into Ryan’s neck, “I love you more than you'd ever know. That’s why I’m here. Plus,” he nuzzled his head in his shoulder before pulling away, reaching for his pocket. In his hand was a pouch, reeking of sage, holding onto the last thing Ryan gave to him. 

“Didn't you say you’d want this back?” He placed the Limpia pouch in Ryan’s hand, “see, now we don’t have a reason to be apart anymore.” 

There were still uncertainty behind those words, secrets they both held inside of their hearts that the other wouldn’t ever understand. For now, it didn't matter. Ryan had the man he loved before him, in his own house and ready to be with him.

Whatever it cost.

He lifted his hand to Shane’s cheek, tucking back a loose strand of hair before wrapping his hand on the back of his neck. Shane leant down first, taking in his lips with his own, unmoving but breathing him in. Ryan felt happy, ecstatic to have something he finally wanted. He pecked the side of Shane’s mouth, tracing his jawline before hugging him again.

If he squeezed the pouch of Limpia too hard (enough to spill the contents onto the floor and make Curly furious that he’d have to make _another_ batch,) it was between them.

**_END OF PART II_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _El amor de mi vida:_ Love of my life.  
>  _Hermosito, chiquito:_ Handsome, Little one/sweetheart.  
>  _Guapo:_ Gorgeous.


	15. Epilogue

**DECEMBER 2001  
Schaumburg, Illinois**

He felt it before he heard the commotion from his living room. 

Ryan shivered, his arm hair stood along with the goosebumps beneath his hoodie, and he paused in folding laundry to straighten up. Ah yes, Illinois' frigid breeze that kept him awake during the night (until an arm or two would wrap him in a warm embrace,) the cold that his Californian roots loathed, ( _until_ an extra jacket draped over his shoulders.) The familiar wind that he avoided from peeking into his house, (nothing the big guy could do here, unless, you know, he closes the front door.)

He never got used to it.

No matter what his husband told him, Ryan would never understand how he could tolerate the cold. The chill against his skin was enough to unnerve him because that meant one of two outcomes:

One, a ghost was in the vicinity.

Or two, (the most rational outcome up to date,) _someone_ left the front door open. Ryan exhaled deeply, watching the air around him visibly form and he cursed under his breath. They were his children alright.

Before he could speak on what bothered him, Ryan trembled again. He had planned to take a nap around this time anyway—without the cold from reaching him. He turned away from his daughter’s bedroom, covering his clothed arms with a blanket he was supposed to set down on her bed and walked to the living room. 

Standing above the staircase of his house, Ryan heard muffled voices instantly, his son’s bell hat overpowering his own squeaky voice. Without interrupting the obvious situation, Ryan leaned on the wall of his hallway.  
  
“Not fair! I wanna open it!”

“Well, it’s not even from grandma and grandpa in California! Until then you can!”

"Daddy said I can!"

"Daddy is _upstairs_ , he doesn't even know!"

There it was.

“ _Dad_!”

Grinning from ear to ear, despite knowing that he’d lecture one (or both) of his children, Ryan stepped away from the wall and spun around to face his eldest daughter and youngest son. “Please tell me you're arguing over who left the front door open.”

As he suspected, two young faces looked at him, stunned. Whether they had been marveled that Ryan had a third eye for their sibling hijinks or that they'd _forgotten_ , Ryan couldn’t tell. His daughter, Stephanie, turned to her head towards the door. At a whopping twelve years old, she realized that she was in charge and slapped a hand to her forehead. 

“Dad, I’m so sorry!” She stood from previously kneeling on the carpet, her black leggings covered in snow as she ran to close the door. Now that Ryan could see, she wasn’t wearing the jacket he had told her to wear, back to a striped hoodie under a denim jacket. His smile faded, what amusement he felt toward his children waned with the situation at hand. Ryan's mind swirled with what could have happened—his son running off, Stephanie following him, strangers following them or neither looking after crossing the street—he felt his heartbeat halt for a moment.

“Stevie,” he breathed, hurled his daughter'sblanket on the couch and fell to his knees in front of his children. Thankfully, his son, Alex, _was_ dressed for negative eight degree weather. Concealed in his puffy jacket, a couple of scarves peeking through _and_ his hat, Ryan's son sat on the floor beside the coffee table, dutifully.

Ryan looked over Stephanie, trying to see if she had been injured while he brought his son into his arms and jumped to his feet, carried him on his waist. Ryan felt his son hunch his shoulders, quivering and prop his chin on his father's shoulder. Ryan went on, “I told you to be careful and to watch him. He’s too young for you to leave alone. You’re not even dressed! I thought I told you that you could get sick.”

Stephanie looked unharmed, though her eyes were glossy and she reached for Ryan. “Dad, I _know_. I followed him outside because he heard the doorbell ring! He dressed himself! I wasn’t playing outside, I promise!”

The doorbell rang? Ryan’s forehead creased, he didn't hear a doorbell where he had been. If that’s the case—he held his daughter closer to him, without looking at his children, he looked out into his yard, ready to protect his family if need be. ”You left the door open after a stranger rang the doorbell?!” He blurted out, holding his son’s head close to him and looked out the window. “ _Stephanie_?”

“But—but Miss Robinson isn’t a stranger!’ His daughter insisted, their Christmas tree lit up her troubled expression on her face, her black hair falling over her eyes, “she was here to deliver the mail!”

“You should have stopped him and let _me_ know,” he narrowed his eyes over the front lawn again before looking at his daughter, she had grown over the years since he and Shane had adopted her—actually, she had been mature for her age since they met her—and her responsibility of protecting her little brother cause her to act on impulse. Ryan always knew Stephanie would do anything to keep her brother out of harms way and it was the stem of Ryan's concern. He didn't want to make her cry, so he extended his hand and cradled her cheek.

He bent down and placed his son on the floor, helping him take off his outerwear and replied: “Sorry, Stevie. I didn't mean to yell. Be cautious next time okay? I know you tried to stop him from running off, I was just scared.”

He heard her sigh, stepping towards her brother and assisted with his shoes. “I guess, sorry dad. It’s just… uncle Curly sent a package and I wanted to open it first but then he wanted to open it, so it became,” she gesticulated exaggeratedly with her arms, “this _mess_ and I forgot about the door.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan's son grew suspiciously quiet, “and you? How come you dress up so fast? How old are you today?”

“I’m six dad, I’m big now.”

“Hmm,” Ryan straightened his son’s sweater before standing, “do not go anywhere without me, your father or your sister. Especially when it is very _cold_ outside.”

Stephanie whimpered, “are you gonna tell dad? You shouldn’t, because he’ll make scary faces at me.”

Ryan passed his daughter over to the closet by the front door, opening it wide and hung his son’s jacket higher up than before, “he only does that because he can’t intimidate anybody, especially you.” He motioned for her to come closer, “put away your shoes, I’m not gonna tell your father but we could open the package without him.”

“The—” Her eyes rounded, reaching over for her shoes and Alex's before running over to Ryan’s side, neatly setting them where they belong before dusting off her skirt, “we can open it?”

“The both of you can, if it’s from Curly,” Ryan closed the closet, “then it must be a beautiful gift.”

Stephanie smiled, her toothy grin directed to her younger brother, jumping over to his side and giddily embracing him. Out of the two, she was most stern when she was alone, with her brother, the magic surely shone through. Similarly, her brother clapped along, monologuing as to what it could be that Curly brought this time around.

For years, Curly sent gifts to them whenever they weren’t heading down to L.A for the holidays. It was a shame to miss him again during this time, especially when he hadn’t seen him for months, but he never failed to remind Ryan to call. And call he did. With all those promises of presents to his children, Curly made sure to give from the heart and as he put it— _”open their eyes to what made me happy as a child._ ”

The box delivered to them by their neighbor was peculiar simplistic, since it was Curly they were talking about. A brown box with crumbled edges, taped with a sticker that had their address and Ryan’s name. Every year, Curly drew on the box based on what interest Stephanie or Alex had their eyes on; and because his children loved to switch hobbies every month or so, Curly had his hands full.

“A ghost!” His son shouted, “it looks funny, like a cartoon.”

The sketch of an apparition was almost a far cry to the real thing. See, Ryan had seen ghosts—anything from a shadow here or there during his spontaneous adventures to find the truth—but he knew that a ghost wasn’t a white figure with two eyes and a smile. It brought a smile to Alex’s face anyway, following Stephanie's interest in soccer. 

“Let’s see what’s inside,” taking a box cutter in hand, Ryan sat between his children on the living room couch, their desire to see what was gifted to them thrilled them. A little too much as their curiosity became assumptions of what it could be, from _uncle_ _Jake gave us toys already, it can’t be that!_ to _uncle Curly bought us ice cream last time we went to California, do you think it’s an ice cream machine_?

Whatever they imagined didn't prepare them for a box the size of Ryan’s shoe. Once open, Ryan whistled at the festive tinsel inside and a note. He begged his children to not make a mess of it, then saw a flicker of gold lying on the tinsel. He reached for the note, without a chance to read it before his children both gasped. 

He must have skimmed over the word _handcrafted_ and _gold_ before he looked at what they thought was _so_ intriguing. Two gold bracelets, separately packed and set on the tinsel. Both engraved with the names of his children, to which they did not hesitate to reach for in awe.

Ryan, confused, looked at the note. 

_For my beautiful nephew and niece. I love you so much! These bracelets are handcrafted by yours truly, made by the finest gold and purified to protect you. Ryan and Shane, have a lovely Christmas. See you soon!_

_Curly_.

“Dad! Look!” Alex called to him, extending his wrist at Ryan as Stephanie struggled to clip the newly gold bracelet over it. Her tongue stuck out as she scolded her brother for moving too much. “It has my name on it!”

Placing the note to the side, Ryan reached for his son’s wrist, stroking the ridges of the gold bracelet… nothing. Nothing felt weird. It was an ordinary bracelet, with a small chain and a plaque with _Alexander_ engraved with capital letters. Even if it’s been years since Ryan dabbled with Curly’s protection and herbal mix packages, he knew the soothing scent of _albahaca_ anywhere. 

Turning to his daughter, he watched as she fought with her own bracelet before reaching for her wrist. Identical as her brother’s, her bracelet had her full name engraved and again—scented with botanicals that protected his children. “They’re beautiful, right? Your uncle made them for you both.”

“What did his note say? What did it say!”

“Yeah! what did it say!”

Without thinking about it, he handed Curly’s note to his daughter, watching her read it aloud. By the end of it, his son’s smile plastered on his face widened as his daughter groaned. 

Ryan sat back down, the corners of his mouth teased with a smile, “hear it comes. What is it, Stevie?”

“Don’t get me wrong dad,” she started, her head backwards as she pressed the bridge of her nose, “this is one of the best presents I ever gotten and I will hug my uncle tight when I see him and thank him. But you can’t convince me ghosts are real.”

Deciding to entertain her, Ryan pressed, “why not? Curly protected me from ghosts countless times before I met your father.”

“He did?!” Alex’s eyes seemed to gleam, crawling over his dad’s lap and held onto his shoulder. “He protected you from ghosts?”

“He did,” Ryan swayed back and forth, his son in his arms, “he protected me, your uncles, aunts, your father. And now he’s going to protect you. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Stephanie didn't look convinced, she grinned at her brother anyway though the twinkle in her eyes told her otherwise. “Yeah!” She stood, whirled around and looked at her brother, “he will protect you from ghosts like I will! But I gotta get father’s premission first.”

“Permission,” Ryan corrected, pressing a kiss to his son’s head, “do you hear that? You’ll be fine.”

Seemingly proud of herself, Stephanie stepped away from them to admire her bracelet, reading the note repeatedly. Ryan knew that she was a skeptic, except on the behalf of her brother, where she pretended that the supernatural existed. She never tried to upset her brother, (not since she accidentally had made him cry at two years old—despite Ryan or Shane reassuring that all toddlers _cry,_ she wasn't having it,) and tried her best to never let it happen.

It wasn't hidden to the world that she wasn’t Ryan or Shane’s biological kid, (adopted by them years after they wed, her name an ode to Ryan's middle name and her grandfather's,) still, she has grown to love them over time and they’ve always seen her as their own. She was Ryan’s baby, she was _his_ daughter.

Although as time went by, Ryan sat Shane down and told him about surrogacy and asked if it was alright to have a child of their own. It took time—years—before they got the thumbs up, up until the day their son was born. If they only knew the consequences of what the human mind could do, Ryan would have prepared himself beforehand.

Ryan discovered his son talking to air at age three.

They didn't think much of it at first, until the night terrors began frequently. His son would wake in the middle of the night, howling or calling for them; and their relationship dwindled as they fought often about it, exhausted from staying up late into the night, and tried their hardest to get their son the help he needed. Shortly after at age four, Ryan knew that his son was clairvoyant but Shane was convinced it was mood-related. It was tough to accept it, (more so on Shane’s part who _couldn’t_ ) when their son began to experience events that Ryan had as a child.

Terrifying, is how Ryan remembered it. His son was braver than anyone he ever knew, and after a while, Alex's counseling continued with nothing of a disorder but precognitive abilities. It was recently when Curly sat him down and explained the beauty of it all. Opening Ryan's son’s eyes to what his life was now, and finally had an idea of what it was like to be different.

A decade after Ryan accepted that he _may_ have _some_ clairvoyance in him, his son decided to train his ability at an early age. If there was any consolation, Alex was both Shane and Ryan’s son—growing to become Ryan more and more each day. A believer.

His daughter?

A knock on the front door interrupted Ryan’s thoughts. He paused in caressing his son’s back to soothe him when Stephanie hopped to her feet, her brother looking over his shoulder. “He’s home! Daddy's home!”

“He is?” Ryan glanced over to the clock on the wall before he felt Alex jump out of his arms and into the arms of the man who _also_ forgets to close the front door.

Shane was covered in head to toe, a beige coat that hung over his shoulders and a scarf that he removed to speak. He caught his daughter first, holding her up to his hip while his youngest found the need to cling onto his leg.

“Thought you'd spend another night at the office,” Ryan admitted, finding his way into the mess of his husband and children. He smiled as Shane’s eyes found him, pressing a kiss to his check, “hey big guy.”

“Devon kicked me out because I missed you and the kids,” Shane grumbled out and smiled before leaning down to press a kiss on Ryan’s cheek. He aimed for his lips, though his oldest wanted all the attention from her father. She pulled his neck to her, enwrapped in her thin arms, Shane's nose crinkled as he yelped, “ _whoa_ there, lassy. You missed me that much too?”

“You’re cold,” she pouted, having taken interest in embracing him. “Dad jokes about you walking home but now I think it's true.”

“He did ban me from stealing from your uncle Eugene,” Shane grumbled, practically dragging his son as he tried to close the front door. “Kids, I know you missed your old man but I gotta make use of the limbs I’m given.”

Ryan stood on the sidelines, watching the scene unfold before him in his living room. This happened often, the kids loved to run into their parent's arms and hug until there wasn’t anything left. It warmed Ryan’s heart to see it and have it happen to him whenever he’d return from work.

He knew the big guy must be _starving_ and reached for Alex, holding him close to him, “your dad is probably hungry, why don’t we sit down and you can show him what Curly sent you.”

Shane shot a glance to him, he rose his eyebrow and bounced his daughter higher on his hip. She was almost a teenager, though Shane was gigantic, her height had nothing on him, “got the kid’s presents already? You think your folks got theirs?”

“Dunno,” Ryan shrugged, tapping Alex's shoulders as he sat him down on the dining table and serving him a healthy amount of warm food. “Didn't hear anything from mom when I called her earlier. Neither did Jake. Your brother came over yesterday though, said to _not forget the rest of the tree logs,_ whatever that means for you midwesterners.”

“Pretty straightforward, little guy. Think he's referring to you this time, since you know, you _can_ carry logs,” Shane placed their daughter on her own chair, he ran his fingers over her hair, gathering it up into a loose bun so that'd she'd eat without hair in her way (as she had struggled before as a child). She sulked when her father stopped hugging her, albeit her attempts to be held dwindled when her dinner was in front of her.

Shane walked over to Ryan’s side, taking the spoon from the pot and served himself. They moved in a synchronization, used to doing chores and sharing the help around the house. 

Before Shane sat down, Ryan’s hand moved to Shane’s back as a silent _I'll take your coat for you._ Shane's mouth set in a thin line, now that their children had their sights on their dinner and away from them. Ryan lowered his voice, “glad you got home safe,” he muttered, unbuttoning his husband's beige coat, “you had a session today right? We can talk later.”

“Yeah,” Shane pressed a _real_ kiss on Ryan’s lips this time, hastily before going for his serving of their dinner. “We will.”

They ate together every other day. There had been evenings where Ryan sat with their children and explained that Shane was out ‘solving crimes and being a superhero’ and couldn't sit and eat with them. Years before, it had been Ryan who missed meals, until he was blessed to work both remotely and out in an office for a company.

They lived in L.A for a couple of months together, helping Curly move out until finally, Ryan asked him for his hand in marriage. After their wedding (and _wonderful_ honeymoon,) Ryan enrolled at UCLA for cinematography and followed his dream to travel the world to find evidence of the paranormal. Shane, on the other hand, left his federal position for Impicciche and took a well-deserved hiatus as Ryan's assistant and accompanied him around the world.

Shane’s job took a toll on him, and shortly after adopting their daughter, he set off to meet with a therapist every week. Even after returning back on the field as a temporary investigator for Eugene, his mental state deteriorated, no matter what he tried to do. He’s gotten better in the last few years, especially as their children entered their lives.

Still, Ryan snuck a couple of glances towards his husband throughout dinner. He kept his smile for their children, washing dishes as Alex did his best to dry them. After, he sat down with them in the living room and told them what tomfoolery occurred back at the office. (Which, without Ryan, wouldn't be much than banter between Shane and Katie, and Steven pleased to have Shane around to talk to.)

Deep down, Ryan knew that something was bothering Shane. With the holidays rolling in, he saw beneath the façade and wanted desperately to embrace him to comfort him. He never brought it up in front of their kids though, he hadn’t gotten a chance to sit him down because Shane would return from work mentally drained. Instead of pushing it, Ryan wiped his hands with the kitchen towel and walked into the living room.

“No way! I don’t believe it!”

“I didn't either, but your dad _insisted_. So you gotta believe him.”

“Dad!”

Upon hearing his daughter's call for him, Ryan blinked vacantly, wiping his hands on his sweatpants, “what did I do?”

Shane smirked from his spot on the floor, unreasonably comfortable although his daughter sat his lap and his son dangling on his right arm. “I was telling the kids our trip to a lighthouse, remember, the _full body apparition_ we caught on camera?”

He huffed, he barely remembered what happened _yesterday_ , but he dug through his memories with Shane as he sat down beside his family, squinting when the Christmas lights illuminated his face, “ _we_ caught one but your father doesn’t think so.”

“Eh,” Shane shrugged exaggeratedly, “who's to say? That’s why Curly made these for you both. He loves you and wants to protect you from ghosties.”

“I guess that makes sense…” their daughter grumbled, looking at the hardwood floor and then to her brother, “I’m busy all the time fighting _ghosties_ for you. These will help us out now.”

She extended her arm, showing her brother their matching gold bracelets, to which he replied softly: “superhero.”

“Your sister is the best superhero out there,” Shane approved his son's faith in his sister. He tickled his daughter out of his lap and reached for his son’s favorite toy. He strived to make him laugh, carrying around the lightest toy and running around until a set of giggles were heard.

_What a way to tire them out_ , Ryan mused and smiled faintly, stroking his stubble. 

Predicting that to be true, Ryan returned back to the kitchen shortly after to finish his work when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't see anyone enter or prepare a cup of coffee for him, but he appreciated the generosity. His hand moved to Shane's on his shoulder, his fingers caressed Shane's, his thumb moving over his husband's wedding band. 

The clock above him almost read ten o’clock, and from the faint sound of the program playing on the television, the children must be asleep by now.

“Hey," Shane sat on the chair next to his, cradling Ryan's hand and just... held it, his voice alarmingly gloomy, "what are you doing?”

“Research,” Ryan mocked a whine, taking a sip of coffee, “gotta read all of these articles before we leave on Tuesday.”

Shane hummed, looking almost as he wanted a cup himself. Though he was set out to take care of their kids tomorrow as Ryan had errands to run and expected another night of work. 

“They’re asleep?”

“Our girl's out, I tucked her in. Alex is in the other room.”

Ryan nodded, noting to check on her later. “Surprised he's not exhausted. He didn't sleep last night, I think he'd gotten three hours in, at most? Said a group of—of ghosts were staring at him all night.” 

Ryan knew he was downplaying what his son told him this morning, but he couldn't wrap his head around the terror his youngest must have felt—enough to render him still in his bed, away from his parents—and he covered his mouth with his hand.

“Christ,” Shane took in a sharp breath, his gaze looked heavenward in their dim kitchen. He worried over their son as much as Ryan did and had admitted culpability for not understanding what their son was going through. Even though Shane took him to counseling and sat with him—comforted him during rowdy nights and reassured him that he was there for him—he still felt guilt.

“He’s not skipping meals,” Ryan made the effort to sound reassuring, “ever since your recent case began, he’s been eating normally, if not more. I think you should meet with his counselor with him tomorrow. Stevie wants to go over to her friend's, maybe you can drop her off with them.”

“Alright. I'll sleep next to him tonight,” Shane ran a hand over his chin, threaded his hand through his hair and stood up, “don’t stay up too late, baby.”

"Wait," Ryan encircled his fingers on Shane's wrist, he was warm and his husband did not retreat, but rather sat back down, “before you go. Tell me what happened during your session. Did it go well?”

“Ryan,” Shane gave him a soft smile, he rested his hand on Ryan's knee and squeezed it, “it went alright. I talked about what I told you last night and about Alex. But…”

“What?” 

Shane swallowed, reluctance written on his face and he maintained his silence. After a pregnant pause, Shane leant on their kitchen table, intertwining his hands on top of the cloth, purposely away from Ryan's articles. “There has been another attempt to an appeal. Lydia and I crossed paths too, she just landed this morning.”

A muscle in Ryan's jaw twitched, he rubbed his hands over his eyes and scooted closer to Shane. Ryan looked over Shane’s shoulder, the doorway that connected to their living room was unlit, the television shone the couch, where his son laid, asleep. He asked tartly, “why the hell would they do this now?”

“Devon said there’s a small chance it would be evaluated. Lydia was there to convince the judge to… you know—reconsider accepting the appeal. She brought… Garrett's present and invited us to visit him before we leave.”

“Of course,” Ryan agreed instantly, massaging Shane’s forearm, “how long have you known?”

“About the appeal? A few days,” Shane confessed, “the crew did not want to drag you into it, not after you testified. I doubt it would work. I swore that I would not let him go free. Not when—” he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, "you, our daughter, our son _live_ here. And I'd do anything to keep you all safe."

Speechless, Ryan looked upwards at his husband. He reached for him and wrapped his arms around his chest, holding him close until Shane's shoulders hunched, digging his head into the crook of his shoulder.

A decade had passed since their first (and last) homicidal case concluded. Though, the trial and court hearings ensued years after, provoking their trauma every time they've been asked to testify against the suspect. Ryan knew it would never end for either of them, especially after what they witnessed, but the family _had_ to live with their loved ones gone—now that the perpetrator admitted to the crime and public interest withered—and wanted nothing to do with it anymore. Shane vowed to their privacy and pledged to fight for justice on their behalf.

He had, all these years, Shane's ambition never left him, and in the dark of the night, he would bawl, shamelessly expose his vulnerability to Ryan after a difficult day.

After the judge sentenced their suspect life in prison in 1990, the uproar from the public waned and those who had been old enough to remember grew, their children would never know. But the appeals came in. For years, defense lawyers wanted to dispute any of their evidence and it terrifyingly _almost_ worked. Until advanced D.N.A forensics presented brand-new evidence against their claims and those petitions became futile.

All it did was remind Shane of the outcome, into a spiral of memories he wanted to forget and even with trauma he had left to deal with.

Lydia never stopped visiting them. She became an advocate for domestic violence, protecting the rights of the victims and further fought for their justice. She visited them every holiday, for Garrett’s birthday, she’d buy him something and visit his grave to leave it for him. It devastated them all, and always ended up Shane in tears the following night.

He felt off every December, but the appeal must have been the cherry on top.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan whispered, truthfully wishing that he had a way to stop his husband from fretting. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Shane’s tone was stale glee, and his voice had croaked in between words. He shook in Ryan's arms, “it’s not your fault. Just… we can talk it out with her this weekend, hmm?”

“I love you,” Ryan declared, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Shane, from Ryan’s shoulder, pressed a kiss on his neck and pulled away. His beard scraped Ryan’s stubble and he winced, “I’m going to tuck in—”

“Daddy?” Interrupted by a higher voice, they both turn to the doorway and see their son standing there, his hair tangled. “I don’t wanna be by myself.”

Shane wiped his tears from his cheeks, jumped from his seat and extended his arms towards his son, “you’re not alone, buddy. Come on, we can stay until you fall asleep.”

Their son mumbled something in the fabric of Shane’s pajama shirt, incoherent and with his eyes shut. They walked together to Alex's room, almost a replica of what Ryan loved as a child and sat by their son’s side. Often, their son’s night terrors began later in the night, but their soothing voices as they read a story or two had kept them from waking up, groggy and disoriented with sleep.

Before Shane could try and think of what to read, their boy shuffled his sheets and asked: “who is uncle Garrett?”

They froze, incapable to give him an answer right away. Ryan glanced at Shane, neither had spoken to their children about Garrett, anxious that the truth of what happened to him would frighten them. They wanted to wait until they were older, and resentment was what Ryan felt at first, wondering if someone in the family must have talked about Garrett without approval from both of them.

The silence grew, but their eyes met one another. Instantly, Ryan knew Shane would become mournful, and his mood wouldn't _just_ affect Ryan, but their son. Ryan tried his keep his emotions under-wraps, his hands tightened into fists and observed Alex, just in case he would start to complain about a headache. He didn't, and the tension in the room disappeared when Alex straightened up.

“He visits when you're not home. Sometimes he reads to me for you," their son pointed at the wall, "daddy is his best friend. Told me to call him uncle Garrett.”

Ryan didn't see anything but the cerulean wallpaper and the dresser, though he couldn't say that he didn't believe it.

“Is that true?” Shane pushed away Alex's black hair from his drowsy eyes, watching as his son nodded his head.

“Cross my heart, daddy.”

There was little to say, but Shane offered his son the widest smile he could muster up, “tell him hi for me. And tell him I miss him.”

“He knows that dad!” Their son laughed, half-asleep, “he tells me that too all the time!”

Ryan heard Shane laugh, though he hid the sob that escaped him and pressed a kiss on his son’s forehead. He didn't move until Alex was asleep, his chest falling in a steady rhythm, heedful to not to disturb him from his slumber as he moved away.

“He takes from you,” Shane muttered to Ryan, watching their son’s facial expressions, in case if he’d make the slightest grimace. “He definitely takes from you.”

“What makes you say that?” Ryan stroked down his son’s forehead, soothing the crease between his eyebrows and hushed him. Alex stirred to his side, his hair sprawled on the pillow and his bed sheet cloaked over him.

Shane exhaled, taking in a long deep breath and shrugged. For the first time that night, he genuinely smiled, his eyes crinkled like the first time Ryan’s seen it happen, “he just does.”

Ryan shook his head, huffing out a laugh and leaning towards him. As they watched over their son, making sure he’s the safest he’d ever be, they admired the silence between them.

Knowing that the beat of their hearts were in sync with each other—no longer disturbed—they could only hope that it would forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that!!! 
> 
> I had a bit of fun with this epilogue and a look into Ryan and Shane's future over a decade into the story! I always wanted to try to write parent aus, and this is the closest I've gotten to that hehehe.
> 
> I can say thank you for HOURS and it still wouldn't show my appreciation for all of you who have read, have left kudos and the like on here!!!!! It's my motivation to continue writing here! I doubt it'd be my last (already started on two fics orz) so keep an eye out for me, I'll be around on my tumblr!! I'm a bit active there, exclusively Watcher posts!!
> 
> Another note, I DO have two other completed works on here! Feel free to check them out if you like this one :)
> 
> Shoutout and huge thank you to _popkin16_ and _PrettyFlower,_ who have motivated me to edit a bit faster and make the story as presentable as I could! I appreciate your lovely comments!
> 
> Thank you!! I hope you all have a wonderful day! <3

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://mlnseo.tumblr.com)


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